Gray Eyes, White Tower
by Finduilas88
Summary: Boromir lived through the battle at Amon Hen—barely. How will his survival affect the course of the war, and what will he do with his second chance at life?
1. Chapter 1

_This story is technically alternate universe because Boromir lives, but FYI it will be mostly movieverse with a few elements from the book. _

___I've written fanfics in another category, but this is my first Lord of the Rings fic, so I'm a little nervous about posting it! A huge 'thank you' goes out to CrystalSaffron for being my Beta reader. _

_Reviews will be greatly appreciated, of course!_

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Chapter 1

Aragorn scanned the river ahead of his boat and both banks of the River Anduin as they streamed past. Then his eyes were once again drawn to the gray elven boat floating next to his, which was guided skillfully by his elf companion, Legolas, and the still form that lay in the bottom of the boat. Boromir had been gravely injured in the battle with Saruman's orcs at Amon Hen the day before, his life hanging by a thread. That he was now unconscious could be considered a mercy given the fever chills that had racked him earlier, but it was only Aragorn's certain knowledge that Legolas would alert him if Boromir's condition changed that enabled him to suppress his desire to ground the boats and check on his wounded friend.

Never in his long life had his responsibilities weighed so heavily on Aragorn's shoulders; never had he been so uncertain about his path. While it was true that the river was speeding their way south in the hope of saving Boromir's life, every league and every hour was taking them farther from their hobbit friends Merry and Pippin, now heading north as captives of the Uruk-hai that had wounded Boromir. His throat closed at the thought of the carefree young halfings and what they would have to endure at the cruel hands of the orcs, and once again he cursed the ill fortune that had forced them to make an impossible choice. They would not, _could_ not leave Boromir to die alone in the wilderness, as much as he had pleaded for them to do so. However, the fact that his decision might cost three lives never left Aragorn's waking thoughts.

He had considered having the three companions separate and one take Boromir downstream, but Aragorn himself was the only one of the three who knew the region well, and the only one with more than rudimentary healing skills. Whichever path he took might doom the other to failure. It seemed that their best chance was speed; to find help for Boromir and be on their way to rescue their friends as quickly as possible.

"Aragorn!" Legolas' cry brought the ranger out of his thoughts, and Aragorn looked up to see the elf gesturing toward the west bank of the river. Aragorn searched in the direction that Legolas indicated, and finally saw, far down the riverbank, a lone horse and a dark-haired rider, trotting near the bank, traveling in the same direction as their boats.

From the front of Aragorn's boat, their dwarf companion Gimli asked eagerly, "What is it, Legolas? More orcs?"

Legolas smiled at the dwarf, "Nay, Gimli, unless orcs have learned to ride horses! It is a horse with two riders, both dark-haired. Men, I deem."

Now that the river had brought them closer, Aragorn could see that the horse did indeed have two riders, not one. Any Men travelling in this area were likely Gondorian, so he quickly made his decision. "Legolas, they may be able to help us!"

The river was carrying them swiftly past the riders, so Legolas waved in acknowledgement and began guiding his boat toward the bank, carefully judging their speed so the boats would ground well ahead of the men. Aragorn followed the elf's lead, and soon they were pulling their boats onto the riverbank. While they awaited the riders to come into view, Aragorn quickly checked Boromir's condition. It was unchanged, though he was beginning to stir restlessly, mostly likely in response to the change from the motion of the river.

"Well, Legolas, it seems that you were only _half_ right this time," Gimli pronounced, in the tone of a parent correcting a backward child. "You elves might not notice the difference, but we dwarves would detect immediately that that is no Man; _that_ is a Woman."

Aragorn looked up in surprise to see that Gimli was correct; the horse was now close enough to see that the reins were held by a tall, dark-haired woman and behind her a boy of about fifteen summers. From the woman's age and their likeness, he guessed they were mother and son.

"Be careful not to frighten them," Aragorn warned, "they have good reason to be wary of us."

"Good reason, indeed!" Gimli sputtered, "Why would a woman and half-grown lad be riding here alone, with orcs roaming the banks not a day upstream?"

"Why don't we find out," Aragorn replied, and hailed the approaching riders. "My lady!" he called in Westron, "we mean you no harm, but we would speak with you!"

She pulled up the reins sharply to halt her horse, but did not dismount. Aragorn understood her caution; it would be foolish to give up the advantage of speed her horse gave them if despite his assurances the three companions attacked.

"Who are you, and what do you wish of us?" the woman asked in a clear voice.

"I am Aragorn, a Ranger of the North," he gestured to his companions. "This is Legolas from the realm of Thranduil, and Gimli, a dwarf from the Lonely Mountain. Are you a woman of Gondor?" he asked, though he was almost certain her answer would be 'yes'; she was a striking woman, with the dark hair and gray eyes common among the southern Dunedain.

They heard a sharp intake of breath from the woman and she replied with a hint of wonder in her voice, "You are indeed far from home, sirs. My name is Morloth, and this is my son, Cirlan. What brings you to Gondor?"

"That is a very long tale, my lady. We are in great haste, so please forgive me if I do not tell it in full. We stopped you because we have one of your countrymen in our care, gravely injured, and we are hoping you may help us find aid for him as quickly as possible."

In contrast to her previous caution, before Aragorn had finished speaking, Morloth had dismounted from her horse, handing the reins to Legolas, who had come forward to assist. "My bag, Cirlan," she said shortly but not unkindly.

"Yes, Mother," her son replied. He slid off the horse after her and unstrapped the saddle bags with the ease of long practice.

Aragorn followed her eyes to the boat where Boromir lay, and without hesitation she made her way to his side. Aragorn gasped in sudden realization and dawning hope, "You are a healer, my lady?"

"Yes," she answered matter of factly, "though if he is as badly injured as you say, I may not be of much assistance here." She knelt by the boat as Aragorn hurried to join her.

Morloth pulled back the cloak that covered Boromir's bandaged chest, and again caught her breath, this time in dismay. But when she glanced at her patient's face, she gasped, her face white.

"Lord Boromir," she cried, "the Lord Steward's son!" She looked up at Aragorn, "Where…how?

"You know him?" Aragorn asked in surprise.

She took a deep breath, which seemed to firm her resolve. She bent over Boromir again, and began carefully inspecting the wounds, trying not to disturb the dressings more than necessary.

"I know _of_ him," she replied tartly, "we have never met."

"Do all who live in Gondor know the Steward's sons by sight?" Aragorn asked curiously.

"No," she answered, continuing her examination with a keen eye and sure touch that greatly reassured Aragorn. "I was raised in the city; my father was a Guard of the Citadel and I have seen Lord Boromir many times from afar. I know his brother, Lord Faramir, somewhat better."

She looked up to meet Aragorn's eyes, "Arrows?" she asked.

"Yes, my lady, we had the misfortune to meet a large band of orcs near Amon Hen yesterday." Aragorn responded.

Morloth sighed. "I suspected as much. Filthy creatures." She went on before Aragorn could respond, "Who removed the arrows and dressed the wounds…you?"

Aragorn nodded. "You have some skill, then," she said. "Lord Boromir is fortunate; few have the ability to remove arrows so cleanly. Though it's a wonder he has not died already from shock and blood loss. A weaker man would have succumbed by now." Her voice fell. "This fever may take him still."

Aragorn shook his head, "He is doubly fortunate then, that we crossed paths with you, an experienced healer so far from Minas Tirith."

Gimli had joined them while Morloth was examining Boromir, and added, "My lady, we were wondering what you and your son were doing here in the wilderness. Seems a very dangerous place for a woman and a boy alone."

"More so than a Man, an Elf, and a Dwarf?" Morloth smiled and stood to stretch her legs. "Well, Gimli, is it?" she asked, and at Gimli's nod, she continued. "It _is_ dangerous, and more so than even a year ago, but there are still a few farms and homesteads in this part of Anórien. The Steward's Council has decreed that all citizens should move closer to the city for protection, but some cannot bear to leave their homes and everything they've worked for." She sighed, "How can you blame them?

"Captain Faramir has been urging me for some while to stop coming so far north, and I expect this will be my last time to do so, especially if orcs have come as close as Amon Hen! But there was an expectant mother—a breech birth—that I could not bear to abandon; both mother and child could easily have died without assistance. She delivered safely this morning and we are on our way home."

"Captain Faramir? Are you then an Ithilien Ranger under his command?" Aragorn asked, clearly puzzled.

Morloth arched an eyebrow and replied, "You know more about Gondor than I would expect, 'Ranger from the North'." She quirked a smile, "No, Captain-and-Lord Faramir does not command me, though I am certain at times he wishes he did! I strongly suspect he considers me reckless and willful, but too often useful to completely hinder." Her smile fled. "Though to do him justice, I believe he also tolerates me to honor the memory of my husband, who was indeed a Ranger under his command."

"I am sorry, my lady."

"No matter. I'm sorry I can't be of more assistance with Lord Boromir; as I expect you know, what he needs most urgently is rest, quiet, and someone to keep a watchful eye to make certain the fever doesn't grow worse. The swiftest way to get him the care he requires is for you to continue downriver to Cair Andros. He can mend there until he is fit enough to travel on to the city, and the garrison can send word to the Steward. If you leave soon you could be there by the end of the day tomorrow, unless the weather turns."

Aragorn shook his head regretfully, "And that is just what we cannot do, unless we have no other choice."

"But…but why?" Morloth asked in bewilderment. "You would be greatly honored by the Lord Denethor for bringing his son safely home, and for tending him with such care."

"We three were separated from Boromir when the orcs attacked, so he faced them alone, protecting two others of our company, both halflings," Aragorn explained. "He fought until he could no more, and we did not reach him until too late."

"He fought scores of orcs alone; Uruk-hai!" Gimli exclaimed, his voice breaking.

"But that is not the worst of it." Aragorn continued. "When Boromir fell, the Uruk-hai took our halfling companions prisoner, and now, as we travel south, they run north, taking our friends ever closer to the torment that awaits them. Boromir begged us to abandon him so that we could rescue Merry and Pippin, but we could not. We traveled downriver in hopes of finding assistance for Boromir, but if we do not find it soon, we will lose any chance of saving our friends."

"I thought halflings were only a legend told to amuse children—but then I never thought to meet an elf or a dwarf in my lifetime either! You have reason to believe they will be kept alive?" At Aragorn's nod, Morloth closed her eyes in sympathy, and shook her head. "They are obviously dear to you. I do not envy you that choice."

She glanced up and met Aragorn's eyes. "Lord Boromir would not survive an hour on horseback, and neither Cirlan nor I have the skill to handle the boats on the river."

"The boats are of elven make, Morloth; light and easy to handle. Perhaps you underestimate…" Aragorn began.

Morloth smiled, "Possibly, but I think there is a better choice. There are several concealed Ranger way posts along this stretch of the Anduin, and one is a short way downriver. It is supplied, but almost impossible to find unless you know it is there and where to look. Captain Faramir allows us to use the way posts in need; I do not think he would he would begrudge its use for _this_ purpose! If we could move Lord Boromir to the way post, I will stay with him. Cirlan knows the country well and could ride to bring word to the Captain that his brother is here. If he goes swiftly, there should be little danger. You would be free to search for your halfing friends."

Aragorn sighed in relief and took her hands in his, "You would do this, my lady?"

She looked at him in surprise. "Of course! You cannot abandon your halfling friends as long as there is any hope of saving them and I would not abandon any patient in need, let alone my own Steward's son and heir!"

"Bless you, lassie!" Gimli cried.

Legolas had silently joined them; he spoke gravely but his eyes were alight. "We owe you a great debt, my lady Morloth."

Morloth reddened and nodded her thanks before briskly returning to business. "Cirlan and I will ride ahead to mark where you should ground the boats. I see you made a stretcher for him; you should be able to carry it easily enough from the boat to the way post."

With that, she and her son mounted their horse and were off, riding south along the riverbank.

Gimli chuckled. "Now that is a woman of spirit!"

Aragorn smiled in agreement. "Indeed she is. Though I suspect she will need all of that spirit when our friend Boromir awakes." He laid a hand on the shoulder of both friends. "But at least he likely will awaken, thank the Valar for that."

They readied the boats to leave, hearts lightened by their change in fortune.

-ooo-

Morloth watched as Lord Boromir's companions pulled their boats onto the bank and prepared to move him to the way post. She shook her head, marveling at these new acquaintances. Never had she expected to see, much less converse with an elf or a dwarf! And although Aragorn the Ranger was tall and dark-haired like many men of Gondor, in other ways he was also quite the riddle. His clothes were rough and dirty, almost ragged from hard travel, but his manner and bearing were anything but common—instead they suggested high birth. She also noted that he wore an emerald ring of very fine quality and a white jewel around his neck that looked to be a woman's token, which only added to the mystery.

But she was especially touched by the care and affection they showed for both Lord Boromir and their missing friends, and prayed that her assistance had come in time.

"This way, gentlemen," she called, and led them to the way post, a small cave whose opening was well concealed by rocks and foliage. Morloth noticed in surprise that the frail-looking elf, Legolas, was carrying his end of the stretcher with seemingly little effort, for Lord Boromir was by no means a small man.

Once they reached the cave, she explained, "There are cots in the back, I think it would be best to lash two together so that Lord Boromir has enough room. He must lie completely flat or his wounds will pain him."

While Legolas and Gimli saw to Boromir's comfort, Aragorn approached her and clasped her hands. "Once again, Morloth, I can only express how much we appreciate your assistance, and your son's. You may very well be saving three lives, and sparing their loved ones the grief of their loss."

"I hope this has not taken too much time; I know that you worry for your friends."

Aragorn shrugged. "We've lost about a day, I estimate. Much of yesterday was spent in the portage around the falls, so we have not gone too far astray from our path. Also, the orcs had to run through the breadth of the western Emyn Muil, and that would have slowed them somewhat. We should make up some time if we avoid the hills and pick up their trail where they entered the plains.

"We will hide the boats before we depart, Captain Faramir's folk might find a use for them. We will also see what game may be found in the area so that you and Boromir will have enough to eat until help arrives."

"Oh, that would be much appreciated! Most of the supplies here are travel rations, and as you know, Lord Boromir will not be able to stomach those for some time. But please excuse me, I must speak to my son before he departs."

As the three companions went about their tasks, Morloth ducked outside the cave to find Cirlan. He was waiting by their horse, and she pulled him into a hug, much to his chagrin.

"Mother, they'll think I'm a child!" he objected.

She smiled and tousled his hair, noting with surprise that he was just a hand shorter than she was. "My dear son, I know all too well how 'almost-grown' you are. I know I shouldn't worry, but that's what mothers do. Now, be sure to speak to Captain Faramir himself, he will get us what we need without any argument or delay. If the Captain has returned to the city, ask for Damrod, he will be in command in the Captain's absence."

"I know that, Mother!"

"Travel only by day and use the way posts as needed…"

"But Mother, I can ride through the night—I know the way and it will get help here that much sooner!" Cirlan suggested eagerly.

"No, absolutely not, and this is not just a mother's worry. Rest and quiet are what Lord Boromir needs right now, and it is far more important that they are told that he is here than it is for you to risk yourself to save a few hours. Above all else, you _must_ get word to the Rangers."

Cirlan nodded reluctantly, "Yes, Mother, I understand."

Morloth smiled and embraced him again, "I know you do. Go, and be safe. Lord Boromir and I will be fine here until help arrives."

She did her best to set aside any fears for his safety, and watched him as he rode out of sight.

A short time later, the tall Ranger once again approached her, this time holding a small, cloth-wrapped bundle. "Morloth, we are ready to leave; Boromir is settled and we left what game we could find in the cave." He pressed the bundle into her hands, "Please take this too. It is a few days old but should serve you well."

Morloth took the bundle and was greeted by a familiar smell. "_Athelas_? Why…" Then something that had been puzzling her became clear. "Oh, _that_ is what you put in Lord Boromir's wounds! I have used _athelas_ before, but never in such a way. You find it to be effective?"

Aragorn nodded, "Very much so; it can prevent wounds from souring and will draw out most orc poisons."

"Indeed? Then thank you very much; I will certainly have a use for it." Morloth said sincerely.

The ranger nodded in acknowledgement, "When Boromir wakes, he will no doubt be concerned about our halfling friends, Merry and Pippin. Please reassure him that we are seeking them with all haste. And tell him that I will come to Minas Tirith as promised, as soon as I am able."

"Of course! I'm sure it will speed his healing if he is not so worried over their fate."

Aragorn hesitated before continuing, "One other matter might be troubling Boromir. I regret that I cannot give you the full story…"

Morloth arched an eyebrow, "Part of that 'very long tale' you mentioned, no doubt."

Aragorn gave her a wry smile, "More so than you know, my lady." He sighed and went on, "Boromir may feel that he has acted dishonorably, or failed in some way, other than in the matter of the halflings' capture. Please tell him that his friends do not blame him for what happened, and say that we know he is an honorable man worthy of respect and affection."

Morloth stared at him in bewilderment. "I…I do not know how much good I will do with so little information, but I will do my best."

"That is all we can ask, my lady, thank you for your kindness." Aragorn said with a bow.

Morloth smiled, "If you return to Gondor, perhaps we will meet again. You can introduce me to those halfling friends of yours!"

"I would be delighted to do so. Farewell, and may the Valar guard your steps." With that, the three companions turned and were gone, running north in search of their friends.

Morloth sighed, shook her head in amazement at the surprising events of the day, and slipped into the cave to tend her patient.


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks so much for all the lovely reviews and words of support-I found them very encouraging! A particular thank you to the reviewers who I couldn't contact through PM-your reviews were appreciated too, even if I couldn't say so personally._

_Hope you also enjoy this chapter!_

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Chapter 2

The next day and night were uneventful. Morloth's patient never truly gained consciousness, though at times he would wake enough to take some water or the herb infusions she made to ease his pain and treat his fever. More of a concern was that at times he would thrash and cry out in his sleep, agitated by dreams of danger and pain. She did her best to soothe him on these occasions; concerned that such violent movements might re-open his wounds.

But all in all she was encouraged by his progress. His fever broke on the second day and the wounds bled little so she was certain he would awaken when his body had recovered from the worst of the trauma. As the hours went by with no turn for the worse, Morloth began to be cautiously optimistic that Lord Boromir would live to see Minas Tirith again.

Morloth had set up a cot next to his so that she would be close if he needed her in the night, and late on the second night she was awakened by his cries. As before, he was casting about and loudly calling the names of his halfling friends, terrified for their safety. It wrung her heart to hear his distress so she stroked his brow and spoke to him soothingly.

Then she realized with a stab of terror that not all of the cries were Lord Boromir's; she could hear voices and the stamp of booted feet from outside the cave. How many there were and whether they were men or orcs she could not tell, but she was certain they were not Captain Faramir's men; Rangers would move much more silently.

Boromir was still thrashing and crying out in his sleep. She leaned close, desperate to quiet him lest those passing outside hear him and seek out their hiding spot. "Lord Boromir," she whispered, "you must be silent. We are in great danger! Please, my lord, be calm!"

To her relief he quieted almost immediately. However, she was leaning on his uninjured right side and hearing a woman's voice must have sparked some memory. Before she could move away his right arm snaked around her waist, pulling her against him and holding her fast. She gently tugged on his arm in hopes he would release her but his unwounded right arm was still incredibly strong and quite immovable. She cursed under her breath—what an undignified position to find herself in! She was sure she could find a way to free herself from his grasp, but worried if she struggled too hard she might hurt him and cause him to cry out.

The group outside must have been large; she could still hear their noisy passage. The best course of action, she reasoned, was to simply wait until Boromir relaxed in his sleep and let her go. Resigned, Morloth rested her head against his shoulder and prayed he would remember none of this.

Morloth woke to the pleasant but unexpected feeling of a warm body pressed against hers and bare skin under her cheek. Then the events of the night before came back in a rush and she gasped in dismay—she had fallen asleep! Before trying to move she glanced up to Boromir's face, saw his eyes were closed, and breathed a sigh of relief. His arm was no longer tight around her so she gently disengaged herself and stood as quietly as possible.

She had just turned to leave when Boromir spoke, his voice rough from disuse. "I do not want you to think me ungrateful, my lady, since it has been a long time since I held a woman in my arms, but I would at least like to know your name." Morloth closed her eyes in resignation and turned back to her patient. He was indeed awake, green eyes open and fixed intently on her face. "For that matter," he continued, "the tale of where we are and how I came here would be most welcome."

"My…my lord," she stammered, "you were awake? You should have said so! Oh, what you must think of me!" she muttered, blood rushing to her face.

This elicited a rusty chuckle from her patient. "As I said, it has been a very long time, and given my condition likely a long time before it happens again." He smiled, "As for what I think of you, nothing ill, rest assured."

"You must be thirsty, my lord, after your long sleep." Uncomfortable at the prospect of dressing in front of him, Morloth simply threw a shawl over her shift and brought a jar of water to his bedside. After she helped him drink she pulled a chair next to his bed and sat down. Despite her embarrassment she knew it would do him good to have his questions answered. "What do you recall, my lord?" she asked.

He closed his eyes in remembered pain. "The battle, then Aragorn and the others finding me. After that I think we took to the boats again. Your face, bending over me, then nothing until I woke here."

She smiled, "Very good, my lord. This is a Ranger way station near the Anduin."

His face cleared, "Ah, that is why it looks familiar."

"Your friends took you downriver by boat in hopes of finding help for you, and found me and my son. We were traveling south along the Anduin by horse."

"They should not have done so, the hobbits needed them more than I did!" Boromir exclaimed, "I will never forgive myself if my weakness costs them their lives!"

"Calm yourself, my lord, you will do yourself further injury! Aragorn wished to save both you and the halflings; I cannot blame him for that! I assure you that your companions were equally concerned for them, that is why I am here with you. I offered to stay and tend you so they could follow the orcs that captured your friends, and even as we speak my son rides south to tell your brother you are here."

He breathed a sigh of relief and caught her hand in his, "Thank you, my lady. I owe you a great debt."

"Oh, and before I forget," Morloth added, "Aragorn also said that as he had promised, he would come to Minas Tirith as soon as he is able."

Lord Boromir brightened, a broad smile on his face, "Did he?" He chuckled, "Wait until I tell Faramir that the k…" He stopped abruptly, "That is most welcome news, my lady."

"Then I am glad to have given it to you, my lord," she replied. Even in sleep Lord Boromir was a handsome man, but now that she had seen him awake for the first time she was struck how much his eyes and smile enlivened and took years of care from his face. And if his behavior toward her was any indication, she could see why he had a reputation for charm as well as military prowess.

Morloth suddenly felt acutely aware of the fact that his torso was bare except for the bandages—for purely practical reasons of course—but she found herself noting how heavily muscled he was and that the hair on his chest was the same deep gold color as on his head and beard. Surprised and a little unnerved at her reaction to him, she could only conclude that the unusual intimacy of their situation was affecting her.

Feeling that she should get back on the right footing with her patient, she shifted uncomfortably in her chair and tried not to blush as she spoke to him again. "My Lord Boromir, I feel I owe you some explanation for the fact that when you awoke I was…I was…" she stammered.

"Asleep, lying in my arms?" he said innocently, but the look on his face that made it clear he was trying not to laugh at her discomfort.

Curse the man; he was not going to make this easy! She forced herself to continue, "Late last night, you woke me with your cries. You must have been dreaming or remembering the battle with the orcs. That did not alarm me, it has happened before, but then I heard loud voices and the sound of men marching outside the cave. I…I was afraid that your cries might draw attention to us so I attempted to quiet you. When I leaned over you, you…seized me and pulled me against you." She looked away, unable to conceal her embarrassment.

Boromir chuckled. "It has been a long time but it is good to know that it hasn't been so long I have forgotten what to do!"

"You have not, my lord," Morloth said dryly before continuing. "I tried to get you to release me but you were holding me tightly and I did not want to hurt you by forcing the issue. So I decided to wait until you released me on your own and I…I fell asleep," she ended in a small voice.

"Well, my lady," Boromir began, "that is quite a tale. I would judge it to be so implausible that it must be true. Because appearances to the contrary," he said grandly, "I can tell you are not the kind of woman who would try to take advantage of a man so gravely injured."

"You are far too kind, my lord" Morloth replied sardonically. But when she met his eyes, she couldn't help laughing herself in response to his amusement.

After a moment, Morloth addressed him again. "Now, my lord, since it has been several days since you have eaten, you must be hungry. I have some meat broth I can warm for you." She rose and put the broth over the fire.

"I am famished," he replied, "but lady, meat broth? Roasted meat and ale would be more to my liking."

"I'm sure they would be, but not only are there none available but your body could certainly not tolerate anything of that sort. I can assure you they would be much less pleasant coming up than going down."

Boromir turned a little pale at the picture this conjured and said, "Yes, I can see that."

"I will have to feed you. It would be far too painful for you to sit up and it might reopen the wounds. Perhaps you can try to sit up in a few days when your wounds have had more time to heal."

"Oh, surely not _days_!" he protested, "I will go mad if I have to lie on my back for days and be spoon-fed like an infant! Please, my lady…" Boromir stopped suddenly and said in surprise. "You never told me your name!" He raised an eyebrow inquiringly, "I hope you are not trying to keep anything from me, giving me your name is simple courtesy. I would at least have that before I submit to this indignity."

She rolled her eyes, "My lord, there is nothing to conceal, I simply forgot to tell you. My name is Morloth."

His smile broadened. "Morloth… 'dark blossom', it suits you, my lady."

"Thank you, my lord. It was my father's choice—he had a rather poetic nature that he carefully concealed most of the time." She smiled ruefully, "Alas, the meaning of my name did not prevent the other children from teasing me since it is so similar to the name of the Great Enemy of legend."

He smiled in commiseration, "That must have been vexing. Was your father a scholar, to have given you such a name?"

"Oh, no, quite the contrary, he was a Guard of the Citadel. You may remember him…Menelgil?"

"Menelgil?" Boromir exclaimed in surprise, "Indeed I do, I remember him well. He was under my command for several years before he retired." He chuckled, "Menelgil was always held up as an example to the new recruits as a model of what a Guard should look like. He was so tall and regal in his bearing." Boromir caught her eyes, "You favor him, my lady."

She ducked her head in acknowledgement, unwilling to trust her voice.

"I was sorry when I heard that he had passed away," Boromir said softly.

"Thank you, my lord. My mother died suddenly from a fever and the grief was too much for him."

Boromir squeezed her hand in sympathy, "Then I am doubly sorry."

Morloth smiled to lighten the mood and asked, "My lord, you have the particulars of my name and parentage. _Now_ will you take some broth?"

He smiled wryly, "I suppose it is only fair."

Morloth began feeding her patient spoonfuls of broth. "Now, Lord Boromir, I want to warn you that the next time you awaken I will need to change the dressings on your wounds. I have delayed doing so until now since although I will be as gentle as possible, there will be some pain. I was afraid if I tried to do so while you were unconscious you might thrash about and injure yourself more. I would also like to test your shoulder to insure that the arrow caused no permanent injury to the joint. Your friend Aragorn thought not but I want to be certain."

The broth was almost gone and Morloth could see that Boromir's eyes were getting heavy. She smiled and said, "I would do it now but you need to sleep."

Boromir yawned and grumbled, "How can I be sleepy again so soon? I have only been awake a short time!" He glared at her suspiciously, "Did you put something in the broth?"

Morloth chuckled, "No my lord, your body needs what it needs. Have no fear; you will come to require less sleep as you heal." She pulled the blanket over his chest, "Rest well."

She turned to leave but paused at the sound of Boromir's voice, fighting sleep, "My lady…the next time you wish to throw yourself into my arms, consider waiting until I have two good ones at my disposal, so I may do the job…properly." With that, he was asleep.

Morloth smiled to herself and shook her head, "I will keep that in mind, my lord."

-ooo-

Faramir pushed the maps he had been studying away across his desk in disgust, then leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. The enemy was encroaching on all sides, and he had no way to stop them—at least not without more men and he knew there were none to be had in numbers that would make a difference.

These sobering thoughts were interrupted by the sound of raised voices outside the hanging cloth that served as a door, then Damrod's voice, "Captain?"

"Come in!" he called, thinking gloomily that it was probably too much to hope that this would be good news.

Damrod entered the room and behind him the boy Cirlan, Morloth's son. He had never seen him without his mother so his first thought was that something was amiss with her. Damrod approached and Faramir said, "Morloth?" in a low tone that only his lieutenant could hear.

"That was the first thing I asked, Captain," Damrod replied, "the lad says she's fine."

Faramir sighed with relief and asked, "Then what is this about?"

"Don't know, Captain, he said he would tell you and none other."

Faramir's brows went up in surprise, "Indeed? Then let's hear what he has to say." He stood and faced the boy, "I understand you have something to tell me, Cirlan."

"Yes, Captain," Cirlan replied, and went down on one knee as he'd no doubt seen Rangers do when formally reporting to their captain.

Faramir exchanged a smile with Damrod and said gravely, "You may rise, Cirlan. What is this about?"

Cirlan stood and spoke eagerly, all formality gone in the excitement of the moment, "It's about your brother, sir, Lord Boromir!"

A jolt of fear went through Faramir; five days ago Boromir's horn had been heard, blowing wildly off to the north. Since then he had had troubling dreams about his brother, so concern for Boromir's safety was never far from his mind. "What is it? What do you know?" Faramir asked urgently.

"He's alive, sir! Badly injured, but alive! My mother is with him, in the northern-most way post on the west bank, the one that's half-way up the Mouths of the Entwash."

Faramir knew the spot; although the way post was kept supplied in case of emergencies, he could rarely spare the men to patrol in that area. "I would ask what your mother thought she was doing so far north but I suppose that's a discussion for another day."

Cirlan shrugged and said simply, "A baby, Captain."

Faramir, resolving to have yet another conversation with Morloth about putting herself in danger, simply sighed and said, "That explains why you and your mother were there, but how did my brother come to be there?"

"We were riding home along the river when two boats grounded ahead of us and three…men got out and hailed us. But only one was truly a Man, sir, if you follow me, the other two were an Elf and a Dwarf!"

"An Elf and a Dwarf?" Faramir asked incredulously, "Are you certain?"

"Yes, sir," Cirlan replied, "I've never seen the like before, but there was no mistaking that they weren't Men. The Man said he was a Ranger from the North, named Aragorn, the Dwarf was from the Lonely Mountain, and the Elf from the realm of Tran… Than…"

"Thranduil?" Faramir guessed. At Cirlan's nod, he turned to Damrod. "Mirkwood. I know Boromir went north in search of Imladris so I suppose he could have met them there. Did you say that the Ranger's name was Aragorn? And where was Boromir?"

"That's right. He was the leader and a healer too, or so my mother said. This Aragorn took the arrows out and bandaged your brother after the attack. Mother said he did a fine job, but they were lucky that Lord Boromir was still alive." Then realizing that he was in danger of losing the thread of his narrative, added, "Your brother was in one of the boats, you see, and they were looking for someone to take care of him so they could leave."

Faramir stiffened, "Why were they in such haste to leave a companion so gravely injured?

Cirlan nodded, "They explained that, Captain. When they were attacked by orcs near Amon Hen, Lord Boromir was alone with two more of their company, halflings, the man said."

"Halflings!" Damrod exclaimed, "This tale grows wilder by the minute!"

"They said your brother fought valiantly, but it was just him and the halflings against scores of orcs. When he fell, the orcs took the halflings as prisoners. Aragorn and the other two came in time to save Lord Boromir but the orcs got away. They didn't say why but they were certain the halflings would be kept alive and that's why they were in such a hurry."

Faramir shook his head, "Not an easy choice." He caught Cirlan's eyes, "Tell me, what do you know of my brother's wounds?"

"Arrows here, here and here," Cirlan answered, placing his hand on his left shoulder, chest and abdomen.

Faramir heard Damrod suck in his breath and they exchanged a look. The shoulder wound was survivable, though it could be crippling, but either of the other two could easily be fatal.

"Your mother had hope he would survive?" Faramir asked, his gut twisting with anxiety.

"She said that most would have died right away so it was a good sign that he'd made it so far. But he had some wound fever and that was a worry." Cirlan replied.

Faramir blew out a long breath. "I suppose that's the best we could hope for, given those wounds."

He put a hand on the boy's shoulder and said gravely, "Cirlan, you have done well. You are a credit to your mother—and to Gondor."

Cirlan blushed, ducked his head and muttered, "Thank you, Captain."

"Now, I'd guess that you'd like to return with the Rangers sent to fetch Boromir and your mother." At Cirlan's enthusiastic nod, he continued, "Good. Now go get something to eat and a find place to sleep. You'll be departing in the morning. You can leave your horse here and we will lend you a fresh mount."

When Cirlan was out of earshot, Damrod chuckled. "He's a good lad, Captain, and he'll make a fine Ranger some day, like his father."

"Yes, though for his mother's sake, I hope that day doesn't come too soon." Faramir turned to his lieutenant, "I want you to take twenty men and the best wagon you can find to bring Boromir and Morloth back. I'd give you more but that company of Haradrim and their Mumakil the scouts reported should be passing soon and I don't feel inclined to let them reach the Black Gates uncontested."

Damrod nodded, "It should be enough. There've been no reports of activity on the west bank since that group of Dunland scum came through a few days ago."

Faramir shook his head and exclaimed, "That brother of mine has the Valar's own luck! First he survives wounds that would have killed anyone else and then he gets passed from the hands of one skilled healer to another where by rights none should have been!"

Damrod snorted, "Lucky in more ways than one with Morloth tending him."

"Given his wounds, I doubt he'll even notice who is treating him," Faramir retorted.

"Captain, this _is_ your brother we're talking about, isn't it?"

"Ah, yes, that's true." After a moment, Faramir added, "Well, if anyone can keep Boromir in line, I would trust Morloth to do it."

Damrod brightened, "There is that, sir."

After Damrod left, Faramir sat down again at his desk and was soon lost in thought. Boromir would have much to explain when he saw him again, not the least of which was this Ranger, Aragorn, who had delivered Boromir into their hands. 'Aragorn' was a kingly name, and not one to be given lightly. There had long been rumors that the line of Isildur still endured in the wilds of Arnor…could it be?

He shook his head; such speculation was useless. With a sigh, Faramir reached for the maps he had been studying earlier and set back to work.


	3. Chapter 3

_This chapter is all Boromir and Morloth, but for those of you who aren't quite so romance-oriented, take heart! They'll be joining the rest of Middle Earth starting with the next chapter and eventually some old friends will make an appearance._

* * *

Chapter 3

The days passed and Boromir's wounds continued knitting cleanly; the chances of the fever returning lessened as he grew stronger by the day. Although it would be many weeks before he could again move without pain after a few days Morloth agreed to let him sit up, though perhaps a little sooner than she would have without his persistent and repeated requests to do so.

As his strength increased her patient spent less time sleeping, which had the unfortunate side effect that he had more time to brood and chafe at his inactivity. Morloth understood that it must be difficult for a man used to constant vigorous activity to lie abed for so long, but still, it was..._trying_ to be constantly watched and peppered with questions about what she was doing and why she was doing it. But more troubling were the periods when he would lapse into silence for an hour or more, staring moodily into space and scarcely acknowledging her presence.

On the fifth day after their arrival Morloth noticed that Boromir was in a particularly black mood and resolved to do something about it. So with comb and scissors in hand, she pulled up a chair next to his bed and caught his attention. "Lord Boromir, since I expect your brother's men to be coming soon, I thought you might like to be tidied up a bit before returning to Minas Tirith. I know you are accustomed to doing such things for yourself, but since you have only one good arm and no looking glass, perhaps I can help."

Boromir turned to her, obviously unhappy to have his thoughts interrupted, "What?" he asked impatiently. Before responding she noticed a strand of hair had fallen in his face and without thinking, reached over to brush it away. His response was immediate; he pushed her hand away and snapped, "I am not a child to be cozened!"

Morloth recoiled in surprise, and after a moment to collect herself, replied evenly, "My lord, I assure you I do not think of you in that way."

He reddened and looked away and when he turned back to her his voice was heavy with regret. "I am sorry, my lady, you of all people do not deserve my ire. Lying here like this day after day, doing nothing when others are doing their share and more, it…it _gnaws_ at me."

Morloth sighed, "That I can certainly understand, my lord, I have often heard similar plaints from the wives of Rangers and others who serve Gondor in war. I know it would not suit me to be idle for long."

He gazed at her curiously, "But what is it that you do, my lady? What brought you to be here in Anórien, where Aragorn found you? You have never told me."

"I suppose I have not!" she said in surprise. "I will be happy to tell you, though I wish you would call me Morloth." Morloth smiled wryly, "Anyone who knows me well enough to snap at me should not stand on formalities."

"As you wish…Morloth," Boromir replied, returning her smile.

"I suppose my husband is to blame for luring me from Minas Tirith. Before I met him I never thought to live elsewhere! I was trained in the Houses of Healing as you might expect, and one day when I was near the end of my apprenticeship I met a handsome young Ranger who had come to visit a wounded friend."

"Your husband?" he asked.

Morloth nodded. "Bregor was raised in Anórien, and preferred it to the city, so after we married we moved to a small house west of Cair Andros. I found it quiet at first but being so close to Ithilien was a great advantage; Bregor could spend much more time at home than he could have if we had lived in Minas Tirith. Our son Cirlan was born there and when he was old enough not to need quite such constant attention, I began to feel the call of my training once more. So for the past years I have traveled about Anórien offering my services to those who need them—for many who live here, going to the city for healing is just not possible."

"Then you do a great service for our people, Morloth, and I thank you for it, in my father's name," Boromir said seriously.

Morloth smiled crookedly, "I don't know about that, my lord, but I do prefer it to idleness. Besides, I have found that I would rather work without the constant scrutiny of the senior healers at the Houses!"

"Doesn't your husband worry about you, Morloth, riding about with only your son for company?"

Her face fell, "Aye, he did. He died two years ago."

Boromir took her hand, "I…I am sorry, Morloth, I did not know. Did he…"

"It was a situation not unlike yours, too many orcs for one man to defeat. But in his case, help did not come in time." She paused to compose herself, "It has been…difficult but your brother has been very kind and has made sure than Cirlan and I do not want for anything."

"Has he indeed?" Boromir asked in surprise.

"But I would rather not talk about that now, my lord. At least _I_ have not forgotten the reason I risked your wrath in the first place—I wanted to trim your hair and beard."

Boromir groaned. "Must you?"

Morloth smiled, "I'm certain it would please your father and your brother to see you looking as neat and fit as possible despite your wounds, since you will be unable to dazzle them with displays of swordsmanship for the foreseeable future." Her tone became more serious, "I do think it would also hearten the people of Gondor to see the Lord Steward's heir coming back from his long absence looking as handsome as the day he left. And you never know; it might actually make you feel better."

He gave her a long look and sighed, "I suppose you're right. But be gentle! I hate having my hair pulled!"

Her lips quirked in amusement, "Yes, my lord, I will be gentle and I will try my best not to remove anything you'd prefer to keep."

Boromir gazed at her suspiciously for a moment but then allowed her to begin combing through his hair.

As she worked, Morloth addressed Boromir again. "Don't think I didn't notice, my lord, that you have asked many questions about my life but have said nothing about the journey you have been on, which is bound to be the more interesting tale of the two. I understand you may not be able to tell me everything, but surely some things…the halfings, for instance, what can you tell me of them? Merry and Pippin are certainly light-hearted names, is that also their nature?"

"Yes, indeed! Halflings are remarkable. I have never met beings that take so much joy from the simple things in life. Always ready for a joke or a prank but even with that, not childish, if you follow, and despite their size they are very brave and extremely loyal to their friends and companions."

He paused for a moment, and when he spoke again his voice was rough with emotion. "They would not leave me, Morloth. I shouted at them to run, but they would not leave me to face the orcs alone. When I could fight no longer, they charged the Uruks—creatures that were fully twice their size and more! The orcs simply picked them up and carried them away—it near broke my heart to see such bravery rewarded thus. I cannot bear to think of them in the hands of such beasts!"

"In just the short time I was with them, I could tell that Aragorn and his companions are very capable and determined. You must trust that they will be able to free Merry and Pippin," Morloth said firmly.

"I…I know. I do. Aragorn is a remarkable man and Legolas and Gimli would follow him to the ends of the earth and beyond if need be. If anyone can save Merry and Pippin, they can."

Morloth had questions regarding Aragorn's background and was intending to ask Boromir about it when he continued, shaking his head in wonder, "The halflings had never learned to use swords because there is no need in their land, 'the Shire' as they name it."

"I find it heartening that there is still such a place in Middle-Earth! I would not have not thought it possible," Morloth responded.

"I agree, and I pray it can remain as free and peaceful as it is now. They asked me to teach them swordplay on our journey so they could defend themselves in need and I was glad to help. Aragorn had found swords for them suitable to their size and Frodo had a very fine elven blade given to him by his uncle, a bold, adventuresome hobbit in his day, by all accounts."

"Frodo? I have not heard that name before. Was he another of your companions?" Morloth actually _had_ heard the name before; it was one that Boromir had often cried in his fever, begging this 'Frodo' to forgive him, although for what he did not say.

Boromir stilled, and after a moment, continued, "Frodo, yes, there were four halflings in our company, Frodo and Sam as well as Merry and Pippin."

"Where are Frodo and Sam now? I hope no evil has befallen them!"

"I…I do not know. They took another path at Amon Hen. I also pray that they are safe, wherever they are," Boromir replied, looking troubled.

Morloth wanted to ask why Frodo and Sam had left the company and what their path was but some instinct warned her against it. Instead, she said, "So eight of you set out. What a remarkable company!"

"Nine," Boromir corrected, "nine set out. We lost Mithrandir the Gray Wizard in the Mines of Moria." He shuddered, "What an evil place."

"Mithrandir, the wizard, lost?" she said in astonishment. "How can that be?"

"You knew him?" Boromir asked.

"The children of the Tower Guard knew him and loved him; there was always great excitement when he would come to visit the Steward." She smiled in remembrance, "Once when he was walking through the streets I saw a crowd of children following him, calling his name. Finally, one was bold enough to dash forward and tug on his robes. Mithrandir rounded on him, scowling as if in anger, and then began to laugh and handed out sweets to all the children."

Boromir chuckled, "That sounds like him. He would regularly come to the Citadel in my grandfather's day, though not so often of late." He sighed, "Mithrandir and my brother were very close. I do not look forward to telling Faramir that he is gone."

"I did not think he _could_ die!" Morloth exclaimed, "My grandfather told us tales of Mithrandir's visits when he was a child, looking exactly the same as he did when last I saw him. And he said _his_ grandfather told the same tales!"

"It took a mighty enemy to do so," Boromir replied, shaking his head. "Mithrandir called it a Balrog, a monstrous demon that had survived since the days of the Great Enemy. I cannot imagine a more fearsome foe, lest Sauron himself comes forth from the Black Gates. Yet Gandalf was able to strike it down, though he perished as well."

Morloth shivered, "What a terrible loss; I am glad I did not have to witness it." She had been working all during their discussion and now put down her scissors. "If you do not mind a change in the conversation, I am done. I hesitated to say so before but to my eyes you looked like a barbarian king with your hair so wild and your beard untrimmed. As a girl I always thought that the fierce warrior-kings of Rohan would appear that way."

Boromir chuckled, "You might be surprised how civilized the horse-masters of Rohan can be. These days, they rarely sling Gondorian maids across their horses and carry them away," he continued with an amused gleam in his eyes.

"Oh, now I _am_ disappointed!" she laughed. "In any case, I think you look much better and very handsome, a proper Man of the South, and I don't believe that's just pride in my own handiwork. If you'd like to see it yourself, I'm afraid I have no mirror, but I can try to find something else that would serve."

Boromir smiled and shook his head, "No need, I am sure your eyes are much more discerning than mine, or Faramir's, or my father's. I trust that if you find me handsome, others will too." He met her eyes, and his smile broadened, "Thank you Morloth, both for your care and for putting up with my foul moods. And you were right, I do feel better."

Morloth nodded her thanks and left, more than a little disconcerted by how his smile and the look in his eyes made her feel.

-ooo-

Boromir awoke from his nap and, as if by instinct, his eyes found Morloth. She was on the other side of the cave, doing one of the various small tasks that she used to fill her days; cooking, preparing medicines, repairing clothing or gear. In fact, he spent most of his day watching her. Since the only other activities possible for him other than sleeping were staring at the extremely uninteresting roof of the cave and worrying about things he could not change, it was the most appealing option.

Moreover, if truth be told, he quite liked watching her. Always graceful and efficient in her movements, she seemed to float effortlessly through her tasks, her slim hands never still. Even in repose her face was beautiful—not pretty, no one would call her that, and besides, 'pretty' seemed far too insipid a term to describe her. Instead, her features were strong and striking, with full lips and large gray eyes that seemed to look right through into his soul. The rest of her was comely too; as tall as many men and strong, but generously curved in all the places a woman should be.

Boromir sighed. The day before when she had told him that she was a widow, his first feeling was, quite properly, sorrow for her loss. But he was not prepared for the thrill of excitement he felt when he realized she was unattached. He had then finally admitted to himself how very attracted he was to her, and had been since the first day when he had awoken to find her nestled against him, her hair spread like a fan across his shoulder. Her hair! Unbound, it fell in dark waves down her back past her shoulders, with curling tendrils framing her face. He wanted nothing more than to touch it, touch _her_…

It had been many months since he had seen—much less been with—a woman of his own kind, and as an adult he had never been alone with a woman for so long in such tight quarters. Perhaps that was why he was having such difficulty coping with his desire for her. Just this morning Morloth had decided that he should try to walk a few steps from his bed to a chair. A successful experiment and one he was all too happy to try since it meant she was there to put a supportive arm around his waist when his steps faltered. Besides learning that he was still too weak to walk more than a few steps unaided, the experience taught him two things: that she was only a hand shorter than he was, and that the feeling of her body pressed close to his was just as pleasant as he remembered from that first morning.

But although she was easy to talk to and quick to laugh, he honestly could not tell what she felt for him. At times there was a touch or a lingering glance that gave him hope that she was also attracted to him, but at other times he was certain that was just wishful thinking on his part. Most of his experience was with women who were all too eager to reciprocate if the Steward's favored son and heir showed the least interest in them, but he knew this lady was very different.

Boromir heard Morloth's step and looked up to see her approach. She smiled in greeting and sat down next to the bed before untying the sling that held his left arm in place. "I think that you may soon be able to do without the sling, at least part of the time."

She began to gently bend his arm in various ways, to determine what was still painful and what was not. "As I suspected, you'll soon be able to use it with little pain, though I suggest that you wear the sling while walking, lest the weight of your arm pull at the shoulder wound. It will be some time before you can carry any substantial weight with it, especially that beast," she nodded toward his shield, which was propped against the wall with his sword. "The Houses of Healing have those who specialize in returning injured limbs to full function, so I recommend that you seek one out when you return to Minas Tirith."

He looked up and caught her eyes. "So I'll have two good arms?" he asked casually.

There was no question that Morloth caught the reference; she reddened and made a noncommittal noise of amusement, "You could say that."

When she bent over him to examine his shoulder some of her hair had come loose from its binding and had fallen into her face. With a sigh of annoyance she pulled the binding out of her hair in order to tie it up again; he had seen her do this often when too many of the unruly curls had escaped.

Emboldened by her response to his previous comment, he added, "Your hair is really quite lovely, my lady, you should consider wearing it down."

"That would not be very practical considering the work I do." Morloth smiled ruefully, "However, my lord, since you have hit upon my one vanity, I can only say thank you."

Boromir smiled and laid his hand over hers. He felt her tense, but she did not pull away. "One only? I would think a lady as beautiful as you are would have many," he said lightly.

Morloth snorted in amusement, "Yes, I suppose I'm quite comely compared to all the other women here."

Boromir gazed at her in surprise; did she really not now how attractive she was? He met her eyes and said softly, "I think you are very beautiful, my lady, a beauty that is yours alone. I would be happy to…demonstrate my belief, if you wish." He reached up and rested his hand on the soft skin of her neck under her ear. Heart beating hard in anticipation, he wondered whether she would let him kiss her…or _more_ than kiss her?

Morloth caught her breath sharply and her eyes widened in surprise. Recoiling slightly, she removed his hand and placed it on the bed. After taking a moment to compose herself, she met Boromir's eyes and said, "You ask me to trade the memory of a husband I loved with all my heart for a night's pleasure with a high-born lover. I do not think that a good bargain, no matter how handsome the lover or pretty the invitation."

Stung by her dismissal, Boromir asked, "You do not believe my regard is sincere?"

Morloth's answering smile did not reach her eyes, "Oh, I believe that here, in this moment, it is quite sincere. Whether it will be equally sincere when you reach Minas Tirith and have many more…_attractive_ options to choose from is another question entirely."

Boromir did not know how to respond. In truth, caught up in the desires of the moment, he had given no thought to what would happen when they reached the city. Morloth started to stand, and unwilling to let her go, he quickly reached for her hand to stay her. Too quickly; the sudden movement wrenched his wounds and he fell back on the bed, gasping in pain.

She was back at his side immediately, helping him settle himself comfortably. "I cannot help but think you may have been over-optimistic in your offer, my lord," she said dryly, "given your current condition."

Damn it, she was laughing at him! "I'm sure I could manage," he growled, defiantly meeting her eyes, "with a little assistance."

Her eyes widened briefly and without speaking she bowed her head in acquiescence, leaving him alone with his thoughts.


	4. Chapter 4

_In this chapter, Damrod arrives and we hear something of what's happening outside the cave._

_Regarding Boromir and Morloth, a good subtitle for this chapter would be "Boromir Ups the Ante". :-)_

* * *

Chapter 4

Damrod approached the cave, a twist of anxiety roiling his gut. Their journey here was uneventful, but now came the moment of truth; was he bringing the wounded heir back home as a hero, or simply recovering his body to return to his grieving father and brother?

He sighed; there was no point in waiting. He called, "Hail the way post! My lady, are you there? It is Damrod."

A moment later, Morloth emerged from the cave, looking tired but not noticeably grief-stricken. For the first time, Damrod considered how horrible it would have been for her if Boromir had died on the first day and she had had to stay tending his body for nearly a week.

He swung down from his horse and approached her. "Is he…" he asked quietly, wishing to know whether Boromir lived in case he had to break the news of his death to his men.

For a moment, Morloth seemed startled at his concern, then her face cleared, "Oh, of course, you would not have had news since Cirlan left. He is fine, recovering well and getting stronger by the day."

Damrod blew out a long breath in relief, "Thank the gods! I did not relish the idea of bringing his body home to Faramir and Lord Denethor."

She nodded, "Nor would I have enjoyed explaining his death to them." Then she smiled, clasping his hand, "But it is good to see you, Damrod! Did Cirlan come with you?"

"Aye, he did. And he did a fine job delivering the message, you should be proud of him."

"Oh, I am, very proud, though I'm not sure he'll like it if I say so," she replied with a rueful smile.

"He might surprise you. Cirlan!" he called, "I believe your mother would like to see you."

Cirlan, who had been patiently waiting with the men, now vaulted off his horse and was with them in a moment, seemingly not at all reluctant to be gathered in his mother's arms.

Once they'd had a chance to greet each other, Damrod asked, "So how's he been, my lady? I know from experience that my lord Boromir is not the easiest of patients."

Morloth suppressed a smile, "I've had worse," and then added under her breath, "but not many. Come see him for yourself; I'm sure he'd be happy to talk someone other than me for a change."

Damrod snorted in amusement and followed her in. _Some men have all the luck_, he reflected. Even wounded, spending a week alone with Morloth was not what he'd call hardship duty. In fact, the other Rangers were evenly split on the question of Bregor's widow. All respected her, but some who preferred their women pretty and soft thought she was too tall, too willful and far too outspoken to be attractive. Others, Damrod included, admired those very qualities; and for them her unconventional beauty just added to her appeal. _A fine, fine-looking woman,_ he thought, as he watched her back retreat into the cave. _Whoever wins her heart will be a fortunate man._

"I hear there's a wandering prince hereabouts, so careless as to get himself shot full of arrows. I don't suppose you've seen him, my lady?" Damrod asked heartily. And there was Boromir, sitting propped up on a cot at the back of the cave, looking pale and thin but otherwise healthier than he expected for a man who was close to death a few days before.

"Damrod, you old dog!" Boromir grinned, and they clasped hands in greeting. "It is good to see you after all these months! Still following at my brother's heels, are you?"

"Well, someone has to. Although it's been a lot less risky lately, without you to lead him astray!" Damrod laughed. "You look good, my lord," he added, "much better than I thought given Cirlan's first report."

Morloth and Boromir both began speaking over the other; Morloth crediting his strength and stamina for his recovery, Boromir praising her healing skills. Realizing what they were doing, they awkwardly stopped speaking. Damrod thought he noticed some tension between them—they both seemed to avoid looking at the other. He snorted to himself—it was probably 'my lord' being his usual pain-in the-neck self.

"Well, my lord, you were in the best of hands, that's for certain." He turned to Morloth, "How soon could you be ready to leave?"

"It'll just take a few minutes to gather my things, but I'm not sure what Lord Boromir can wear, he had just the one extra shirt in his pack and that won't be warm enough by itself. His other clothes are far too torn and bloody to use—it's a shame, really, they were lovely. Oh, and there is this cloak, it is still in good condition," she showed them a grey cloak clasped with an exquisite leaf-shaped brooch. "It must be of elven make, I have never seen such fine workmanship. His companions wore cloaks identical to this one."

"No!" Boromir said sharply, "I cannot wear that." Realizing that Morloth and Damrod were surprised at his reaction, he moderated his tone, "Thank you, Morloth, but please leave that in my pack."

Morloth and Damrod exchanged a glance, and Morloth replied, "Of course, my lord."

Damrod added, "Fortunately, the Captain anticipated the problem, and sent some extra clothes that should fit him."

She brightened, "Wonderful! If you could help him dress, I will pack up and then we can get him to the wagon."

"Wagon? What? No! I will not be hauled around like a sack of meal," Boromir protested. "Find a horse for me, I can ride."

Before Damrod could speak, Morloth said firmly, "Absolutely not, my lord. The journey to Minas Tirith will take several days and you aren't even able to sit up for more than a few hours at a time. Riding would be far too exhausting, and you might re-open your wounds."

"But…but I can't be carted into the city like, like…an _invalid_!" Boromir objected.

Morloth and Damrod exchanged an amused look. "If three arrow holes in your chest don't make you an invalid, I don't know what does," Damrod said under his breath.

"I propose a compromise," Morloth responded, her voice steely. "If you are willing to use the wagon for most of the journey, you can ride the last leg into the city on horseback. However, if you insist on riding and injure yourself, I will tell your brother that you need to make your triumphant return to Minas Tirith flat on your back in a cart."

Damrod's eyes widened in admiration and amusement, but knew better than to speak. Finally, Boromir said, with no good grace, "All right, Morloth, I agree."

"Good," Morloth replied, settling the matter, and went off to begin her tasks.

Damrod retrieved the clothes Faramir had sent for his brother and started helping Boromir into them. "Looks like you met your match in stubbornness, my lord." Boromir grunted sourly but did not respond. Then, more loudly, Damrod added, "And if you give the lady any more trouble, I can tell the driver to look for the deepest ruts he can find on the way back."

Morloth smiled, "You needn't do that for me, Damrod. Besides, I'm sure the Captain would have something to say if we treated his brother like that!"

Damrod chuckled, "Yes, Faramir would say he deserved it, and well my lord knows it too!"

As Damrod moved to help him stand, Boromir scowled, "I won't forget this, old friend."

Damrod felt a pang of sympathy for him, he must be feeling rather put-upon at this point, "Sorry, my lord," he said under his breath, "but I'd rather have her favor than yours."

Boromir looked startled for a moment, then snorted with amusement, "That I can understand, Damrod."

As they began their slow progress toward the cave entrance, Morloth approached them. "Wait a moment; let me put the sling on so you don't wrench that shoulder wound." She quickly wrapped the sling around Boromir's arm and tied it securely at his neck. "There you are," she said when finished, smiling and patting her handiwork.

Boromir ducked his head and smiled a little sheepishly, "My thanks, Morloth."

Damrod gazed at him in dismay, _Damn me, I know that look! The prince has gone and fallen for her too!_ Damrod sighed to himself. As far as he was concerned, that was one group that needed no increase in numbers.

As they emerged into the sunlight there was a rousing cheer from the men, pleased to see their Captain-General alive, and if not precisely well, then at least clearly on the mend. They had padded the wagon to make it more comfortable than the bare boards would have been, and Boromir was soon situated, though Damrod could tell that their invalid was chagrined by how much help he needed to get into the wagon bed.

Before they left, Morloth showed Damrod the location of the elven boats hidden by Boromir's companions. Damrod grunted, "Elven made, you say? They don't look like they'll hold much, but I'm sure we'll find a use for them. It's better we have them than the orcs, in any case," and detailed two men to take them downriver to Cair Andros.

Soon they were on their way, Damrod riding close to the wagon to keep Boromir company. After traveling for some time in silence, Boromir turned to him and asked, "So how goes it, Damrod?" Damrod could tell from the look in his eyes that easy platitudes would not be welcome.

Damrod sighed, "Badly, my lord. We're like a dog nipping at the heels of a Mumakil. We may annoy it, and even hurt it sometimes, but we know sooner or later it will turn and crush us underfoot."

"So they're coming." Boromir said flatly.

"No doubt about it," Damrod replied, "I figure by this time that Mordor is so chock-full of orcs and Easterlings and Southrons and Eru knows what else that they'll run out of room for more and have to come out. Captain says it'll start in a week, two at most."

"A week? So soon?" Boromir asked in surprise.

Damrod nodded and said with a grim smile, "Maybe you should have stayed up north with the elves, my lord."

Boromir met his eyes resolutely, "My place is here."

"Aye, and we're glad to have you, whether you can swing a sword or not."

-ooo-

The journey was a slow one since they had be certain not to outpace the wagon, though Damrod sent out faster scouts periodically to watch for trouble and to keep in contact with Captain Faramir. Wanting to give Boromir more independence, Morloth had taken to riding just behind the wagon so she could keep an eye on her patient without making him feel like she was coddling him. Considering the severity of his injuries he was very doing well. Even without her urging at every rest stop he would leave the wagon to stretch his legs and practice taking a few steps, with Damrod or one of the others close by in case he needed a supportive hand.

Seeing him like this was a revelation; he'd laugh and joke with the men, taking their often crude jests in good humor. When one of them carved a rough walking stick and presented it to Boromir he pretended to be outraged that they would think him so infirm, but there was no question in anyone's mind that he was touched by the gesture. As she watched, he moved among the men, a head taller than most, his height and dark blond hair—a rarity among Gondorians—marking him as a distinctive figure. Morloth realized she was seeing him as he truly was; a proud warrior and an inspiring leader rather than the invalid she had known. She wondered in what other ways she might have misjudged him.

On the third day, Morloth happened to overhear a rather puzzling conversation between Boromir and Damrod concerning their route, shortly after one of the scouts reported in.

"What have you heard from Faramir, Damrod?" Boromir demanded, "I wish to speak to him before going on to Minas Tirith."

"Funny you should mention that, my lord," Damrod drawled, "it seems you two are of like mind because he gave me strict instructions to bring you to him first before taking you to the city. I just heard he's on his way to Osgiliath with some prisoners, so that's where we're going."

"Indeed? Out of curiosity, Damrod, has my father been notified that I am alive and back in Gondor?"

"Well, I can't say for certain, my lord, but I think not. I believe the Captain said that he'd rather see you alive with his own two eyes before sending word, not wanting to get your father's hopes up and then cause him grief."

Boromir snorted in amusement, "My clever little brother."

Morloth didn't understand why they waited so long to inform Lord Denethor that his son was alive and on his way home. Certainly when Faramir had heard the first report that Boromir was so gravely wounded she could understand it, but once Damrod had confirmed that Boromir still lived they could have sent word. Obviously, the Steward's sons had even more complicated lives than she had thought.

They camped that night, and would reach Osgiliath in the morning. Morloth felt unusually restless and lay awake long after the others had fallen asleep. Tired of fidgeting on the hard ground, she got up and leaned against the wagon to do a little thinking and star-gazing. A few moments later she heard Boromir's distinctively slow steps behind her.

She turned to him, red-faced, "I am so sorry, my lord, I didn't mean to wake you…please, you need your rest."

Boromir shook his head in exasperation and said, "Morloth, do stop apologizing—I wasn't asleep so you couldn't wake me. I get so much rest during the day that I often have trouble sleeping at night."

"That's not unusual for someone who has been as ill as you have been. Your body will adjust as you heal and become more active. And you've been doing so well practicing your walking; soon you won't need me anymore."

"Eager to be rid of me, are you?" Boromir asked dryly.

"Oh, no, my lord, not at all!" Even as she said it, Morloth knew it to be true. One of the reasons she was finding it hard to sleep was the thought that the next day this unusual interlude in her life would be over. She was surprisingly unsure how she felt about that. "But tomorrow you'll go back to being the Captain-General of Gondor, and I'll go back to my life."

Boromir sighed, "I'm sorry, Morloth, but you can't go back to your life, at least not any time soon."

"What? What are you talking about, my lord?"

"War is coming, Morloth. Sometime in the next few days, perhaps a week, the Black Gates will open and the hordes of Mordor will come forth to assault Gondor. Everyone in Anórien must go to Minas Tirith for protection or be crushed by their passing."

Morloth shivered. This serious, almost austere Boromir was a far cry from the genial patient she had known. "If you're trying to frighten me, my lord, you're succeeding!"

His voice softened, "My apologies, Morloth, that was not my intent. But I need you to understand that this is a matter of life or death. Do you and your son have someplace or someone to stay with in the city?"

"Yes, my sister and her family live on the fourth level. They will take us in."

"Good. When the fighting begins we will need skilled healers, so you need not be idle," Boromir said, almost to himself.

"Oh! Of course," Morloth replied, feeling rather foolish for not having that of that herself. "Of course I'll help."

They both fell silent, Morloth feeling that her life had suddenly been turned on its head.

After a moment, Boromir spoke, "There is another choice, Morloth, one that I hope you'll consider." He paused and took a deep breath before continuing, "Stay with me."

For a moment she was too shocked to speak, "Stay with you?" she stammered, "What do you mean? Why?"

He looked down at her, and their eyes met and held, "Because I want to know you better, and I do not want to leave it to chance whether we will see each other again." Boromir reached up to touch her face, then thought better of it and dropped his hand.

Morloth was becoming increasingly aware of his nearness and the warmth of his body. She was accustomed to seeing eye-to-eye with most men and had never noticed how much taller he was than her. She found it both attracted her and made her feel a bit unsettled. Morloth felt her heartbeat quicken and her breath come short; unable to bear the intensity of his gaze she looked away.

When she felt a little more composed Morloth asked warily, "What would be expected of me, my lord?"

Boromir winced at her tone, "A fair question, given the circumstances. I am not a perfect man, and even less so lately, it seems. But I take pride in learning from my mistakes; nothing will be expected of you, or asked of you that you do not wish to do. You can live where you like, come and go as you please. All I ask for is the opportunity to show you that my regard is not a passing thing, or just a matter of convenience."

"But…but why now? With the war coming…"

Boromir looked amused. "Faramir, Damrod and many others will attest that I am not by nature a patient man. You surely have reason to know that, too. But I _can_ be, if the reward is worth the wait." He sobered, and his eyes strayed east. At night the red glow from Mount Doom was easily visible. "In this, though, it seems to me that to wait is to give up hope, and that I am not prepared to do."

"Won't people think it…_odd_ if I go to Minas Tirith and keep company with you for no reason?" Morloth asked plaintively, still feeling very out of her depth.

He shrugged, "If you feel an explanation is needed, we can say that I trust only you with my recovery, or that you saved my life and I am exceedingly grateful—which happens to be quite true." Up to this point, Boromir had been calm, almost business-like in the presentation of his extraordinary proposal. Finally, some of the anxiety he must have been feeling began to show through, "Morloth, if this is something that you feel you cannot even contemplate, please tell me. If there is no hope I would prefer to know now!"

Morloth felt a surge of dismay at his distress, and hastened to reassure him, "It's not that, my lord, I promise you! I have enjoyed your company very much, and had hoped that would think of me a friend, as I consider your brother to be a friend. But this is so much… _more_ than I expected that I am feeling quite overwhelmed. I…I cannot give you an answer just yet, I need some time to think."

"That I can give you," Boromir said with a sigh. "Though at the very least please travel with me to the city. In these times I would not feel easy if you were to make the journey alone or with just your son. After that, the choice is yours."

Morloth simply nodded, and they stood together for a brief time without speaking. Then he moved closer, and she thought for a moment that he might be intending to kiss her. She tensed in anticipation, but he simply gave her a fleeting caress, his hand warm against her cheek, murmured, "Good night, Morloth," and was gone.

She managed to make it back to her blankets before collapsing, boneless, on the ground, limp with astonishment. Morloth lay quietly for some time, breathing hard, desperately trying to order her whirling thoughts. After the incident in the cave, it was clear that Boromir was attracted to her, but he had been scrupulously polite to her and neither of them had mentioned it since that time. Consequently the idea that he might want more than a night's pleasure seemed so far-fetched that she had never bothered to examine her feelings for him.

Morloth had never been one to shy away from hard truths, and now she forced herself to honestly consider how she felt about Boromir as a man, rather than as a patient or even as Lord Boromir, the Steward's son and heir. How just a short while earlier when she thought he might kiss her, rather than fear or disgust at the prospect, she felt excitement. How he had touched her with his deep affection for his friends and comrades and charmed her with his gallantry and wit. How he cared so deeply for his country and its people, and worried so desperately for its future. How handsome he had looked, standing in moonlight, imploring her to let him prove that he cared for her.

She moaned softly and covered her face with her hands. She was in deep, deep trouble. Morloth had not felt this way about any man since Bregor had died and the fact that she did now for _this_ man terrified her. Knowing that he wanted her should have made things simple, but made it infinitely worse. She fought down a desire to giggle hysterically. No sensible woman in her position would be wondering what it would feel like to be kissed by the Lord Steward's heir! Though she longed to follow her heart and accept Boromir's invitation, she was afraid she would be very much out of place in his world amongst Gondor's most noble and powerful men.

A thought came unbidden to her mind, _Why me? Why me of all the women in Gondor?_ As she finally drifted off to sleep she realized to her dismay that that was the one question she had forgotten to ask.


	5. Chapter 5

_Sorry for the long wait, I've had to travel for work twice and host out-of-town guests since I posted the last chapter! This chapter is very dialogue heavy, as is the next one to a lesser degree, but I just couldn't imagine Faramir and Boromir NOT having a long talk when they met for the first time after nearly a year._

_As always, thanks so much for the reviews, it is very encouraging that all of you seem to be enjoying the story so much!_

* * *

Chapter 5

Faramir watched in relief as Damrod and the wagon carrying Boromir came into view, Morloth's slender form easily distinguishable among the squad of Rangers accompanying them. Boromir struggled to sit upright in the wagon as it bounced over the rubble, and called, "Finally, little brother! I promised Morloth to keep to the wagon until Osgiliath, but I thought we'd never get here!"

Tears stung Faramir's eyes. By the gods, it was good to see his brother again! Boromir's left arm was in a sling, and he moved stiffly from the wounds to his chest, but he looked strong and in good spirits. Faramir strode forward to help his brother from the wagon, pulling him into a careful embrace as soon as Boromir was on his feet.

"Welcome back, brother. You have been sorely missed all these months," Faramir murmured.

Boromir grinned and gripped his brother's arm tightly before releasing him, "It is good to be back home, and better yet to be alive, even in these dire times." Morloth had been hanging back during the brothers' reunion, but now Boromir waved her forward. "Faramir, I believe you know the Lady Morloth; more than anyone else, we have her to thank for my safe return."

His brother's smile softened as he watched her approach, and he held out a hand to assist her over the rough ground. Faramir caught his breath; he did not believe it was his imagination that Boromir's eyes followed her with particular intensity and kept Morloth's hand in his just a shade longer than was strictly necessary. Faramir bit off a curse. If he was right, this was one complication that he had not anticipated!

Morloth reddened slightly as she replied, "You give me too much credit, my lord. Others are equally deserving." It also struck Faramir that compared to her usual easy confidence, Morloth seemed a trifle…reserved. He sighed inwardly and added another to the list of items to speak to his brother about when they were alone.

He smiled at her to cover his unease, "Of course, I am well acquainted with the lady's skills; at this rate I may need to declare her an honorary Ranger!" Faramir stepped close, clasped her hands, and said with heartfelt sincerity, "Morloth, you have my deepest gratitude for keeping my brother alive, troublesome lout that he is."

Boromir snorted in amusement at this description but did not dispute it. Faramir had little doubt that his brother's reputation as a difficult patient had been well-earned yet again.

"If you will excuse us, Morloth, Boromir and I have much to discuss after our long separation, and we may not have another chance to speak for some time."

"Oh, of course, Captain, please don't let me keep you," Morloth said graciously, and walked away toward her son, who was standing with Damrod's men.

"You needn't have been rude to her," Boromir grumbled.

"I wasn't rude to her and I do need to speak to you—now!" Faramir leaned close to his brother and said under his breath, "I have seen your halfling companions, Frodo and Sam."

Boromir stared at him in shock, "You have? Where? Are they well?"

"Not here, come with me," Faramir murmured, and led Boromir to a rough command post that had been set up not far away. It was private, and just as importantly, it had a place to sit, since Faramir was concerned his brother would tire if kept standing too long.

He pointed to the lone chair, "Sit, Boromir."

Boromir glared at him, "So I'm the family dog now, am I, brother?" Despite his complaints, however, he sank gratefully into the chair.

"We found them in North Ithilien two days ago, and kept them in Henneth Annun overnight." Faramir's eyes met Boromir's, "They are well, despite the burden they bear."

His brother paled, "You _know_? They told you of…Isildur's Bane?"

"They did not speak of it at first, only after the creature Gollum revealed what they carried."

"Gollum? Why was he…no, no, first you must tell me, what did you do?" Boromir demanded urgently, "With the hobbits, and with _it_?

"When I realized what had fallen into my hands, my first thought was to send it to Father…"

"No!" Boromir's eyes widened in horror, "Please, brother, tell me you did not…"

"No! Once I realized what it truly was and what it would do, I could not. I…I let them go yesterday. They are back on the road to Mordor with Gollum as their guide; may the Valar protect them.

Boromir heaved a sigh of relief, and put his head in his hands. "Then you did what I could not. Faramir, it shames me to even speak of it, but I…I tried to take the ring from Frodo."

Faramir sighed and crouched down close to his brother, "Yes, Sam said as much when trying to convince me that I should not take the Ring to Father."

Boromir continued, his voice barely above a whisper, "In that moment, it seemed perfectly clear that it was my right and responsibility to take Ring and use it to save Gondor. The fact that I had sworn myself to the quest to destroy it, and that I must take it by force from a companion half my size was a mere trifle. When Frodo escaped and the madness passed, the full import of what I had done came crashing down on me." Boromir lifted agonized eyes and met his brother's gaze, "When I recall the sight of Frodo recoiling from me in fear, I wish that Aragorn had left me there to die—it is no more than I deserve!"

Faramir gripped his brother's arm, "Boromir, Frodo does not feel so. Halflings are not guileful creatures; it was clear enough that he was genuinely pleased to hear that you survived and were on your way home. More than anyone else, Frodo knows how the Ring ate at you, preyed on you, to push you to that extreme. I also now have an inkling of what you endured, though I was subject to the Ring's temptations for only a short time, compared to the weeks and months you had to bear."

Boromir looked up at his brother, his face anguished; "You felt it too?"

"Oh yes, it whispered to me, promised me..." Faramir stopped and shook his head before continuing. "No matter, I'm sure you can imagine what it promised me. But even then I did not understand the danger, not until I saw what it was doing to Frodo.

"A Nazgûl attacked Osgiliath as we were passing through to deliver the halflings to Father, and the Ring's grip was so strong that Frodo came within a hairsbreadth of handing it to him. I was able to drive off the beast it rode, but otherwise…" he shuddered. "Then even after the Nazgûl had left, Frodo was still so lost in the Ring's evil that he drew his sword on Sam."

"No! How can it be?"

"I was shocked as well. Even from my brief acquaintance with Frodo and Sam I could see the deep affection and loyalty between them. Frodo's senses returned in time, but if the Ring could make him behave so I knew that taking it to Minas Tirith would bring certain disaster."

Boromir gripped his brother's hand, "Faramir, you made the right choice; and you make me proud, as always."

Faramir sighed, "Thank you, Boromir, but you know Father will not see it that way. He will not understand."

"Then he must be made to understand, somehow."

"Somehow," Faramir echoed doubtfully. "You should know, Boromir, that I chose not to tell Frodo and Sam about the other halflings' capture by the orcs. It seemed cruel to burden them with that as well as the Ring."

"You did right in that too. They have such a dark road ahead of them; knowing Merry and Pippin were in such peril could only make it worse. Besides, if all goes as we hope and Aragorn succeeds, they need never know."

"Boromir, this 'Aragorn'…Cirlan described him as a tall, well-spoken Northern Ranger who the others looked to for leadership. Morloth evidently thought well of him and trusted him quickly enough, and she is nobody's fool. Just who is this man?"

Boromir looked up at his brother, his face alight, "The one ray of light and hope for Gondor in this dark time. He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, descended in a direct line, father to son from Isildur himself."

Faramir felt the blood rush from his face, and after a moment of stunned silence stammered, "Are you certain?"

Boromir grinned, "Lord Elrond says so, and since he remembers Isildur and all the heirs that have come in between, it seems likely he's right."

"You accept his claim and would acknowledge him as King of Gondor?" Faramir asked in surprise, "You have never welcomed the idea of the king returning."

"I didn't at first, but in time I came to see it. You will too when you meet him."

"And to think," Faramir mused, "all these years the North has had a King with no kingdom, while the Stewards ruled a kingdom with no King. All those wasted years."

"Not wasted so much, I think," Boromir responded, "but awaiting the right time and the right man. I feel in my heart that Aragorn is that man."

"Hold, Boromir!" Faramir cried, realizing the import of something Boromir had said, "You said I would meet this Aragorn; he is coming to Gondor?"

"He told Morloth that he would keep his promise to come to Gondor, and I know he will, once he has rescued the Merry and Pippin." Boromir paused and met his brother's eyes, "Aragorn is a good man, and did not wish to seek power for himself. He was reluctant to take up the burden of the crown, but I implored him to stand by Gondor in its hour of need."

Faramir shook his head, "Brother, you know as a boy how often I dreamed of the King returning. You grew tired enough of listening to the tales. But Father…Father will not blithely hand over rule of Gondor to a stranger from the North, no matter how exalted his lineage. And he will expect you to be of like mind. What will you do?"

Boromir sighed and ran a hand through his hair, "It tears my heart to oppose Father's will in this but I was the one who urged Aragorn to do his duty to our people. How can I do any less for him? If he comes to claim the crown, I must support him, whether it is Father's wish or not. It is Aragorn's right and responsibility, but it is also right for Gondor and our best hope for the future."

Faramir blew out a long breath, "I never expected to hear you speak so passionately of the King's return. If he has you so firmly convinced of his worth, he must be a great man, indeed. You know I will stand by you and this Aragorn when the time comes."

Boromir smiled, "Well, I had _hoped_…" Then, unable to sustain the pretence, he stood and embraced his brother. "Aye, I knew. We will stand together, as always."

After a moment, Faramir addressed his brother again, "Boromir, you should be setting out for Minas Tirith soon, but there is one other thing I feel I must ask you first." He paused, uncomfortable with the subject, "What is between you and Morloth?"

His brother bristled, "Why would you ask such a thing? And why would it matter to you, unless," he paused and glared suspiciously at Faramir, "unless there's more between the two of you than you are saying! Oh!" he exclaimed in sudden realization, "She even said that you had made certain that she and her son did not want for anything. I was a fool not to have seen it before!"

Faramir shook his head in exasperation, "Dear brother, you certainly are a fool, but not for the reason you think. There is nothing between us but friendship and I ask because I do feel some obligation to protect her."

Boromir began sputtering with outrage at the thought that Faramir felt he should protect Morloth from _him_, but Faramir raised his hand to silence him.

"Let me finish, you idiot! Morloth is the widow of one of my men, who was killed two years ago."

Boromir, who had subsided into surly silence, muttered, "I know that. She said he was killed by orcs."

Faramir nodded, "Bregor was a good man, and a brave one, and I had my eye on him for promotion. Two years ago he was leading a patrol in North Ithilien and they were surprised by a large group of orcs. The patrol found a defensible place in the hills to make their stand and in the end Bregor ordered the others to retreat while he stayed to hold off the orcs." He sighed in unhappy remembrance; "By the time we returned in force he was dead and the orcs gone. I could not even let Morloth see his body it was so hacked by the orcs in their anger."

Boromir, sitting with his eyes downcast, said nothing.

"What's more, Morloth has spent the last several years traveling around the countryside, offering healing to those who needed it for no other recompense than the thanks of her patients. I try to help her when I can, and dissuade her from acting recklessly, since she tends to be too heedless of her own safety when she feels she is needed."

He met his brother's eyes, "Tell me, Boromir, would you not feel that you owed something to one who has given so much to Gondor and asked for so little in return?"

"You've made your point, Faramir," Boromir responded testily.

"It might interest you to know although I feel only friendship and admiration for her, there were plenty of volunteers to comfort the grieving widow after Bregor died. She is well liked and respected by my men, not to mention a very striking woman."

Boromir affected an air of nonchalance and said, "Really? I hadn't noticed."

"Ha!" Faramir scoffed, feeling that no further response was needed to such a transparent lie. "Damrod admires her very much, as do others. There would be no lack of suitors if she had shown any interest in a lover or another husband."

"Why are you telling me this?" Boromir asked irascibly.

Faramir suppressed the urge to cuff him for his denseness. "Because, my dear idiot brother, I am warning you that she will be much more difficult to lure to your bed than the women you are accustomed to dealing with."

"Oh well, that I knew already," Boromir said glumly.

His brother was studiously avoiding meeting his eyes, and had an expression on his face that could only be described as…guilty. Hoping to allay his growing suspicion, Faramir said, "Boromir, please tell me you didn't…"

Boromir looked down at his hands, "All right, I admit it; I do think she is beautiful. But Fara, it was just the two of us alone for so long, and there was nothing for me to _do_."

Faramir closed his eyes in resignation, "You tried to seduce her because you were _bored_?" he asked incredulously.

Boromir sat up indignantly, "I did not say that! And that's not what I meant! I…I know it was a mistake, but I hadn't been near any woman in so long, let alone one I cared for and desired so much…" He looked up and met his brother's eyes. "I do care for her, truly, and I want to make things right between us, so I…I asked her to come to the city and stay with me."

"Stay with you? What do you mean?" Faramir asked in confusion.

"If she goes and lives with her sister in the city, I might not see her again. So I thought we could say that I still need her assistance, so she could stay nearby. Then we'd have a chance to spend time together and I can show her that I am sincere in my feelings for her."

Faramir shook his head, "Boromir, only you would devise a plan like this as the hordes of Mordor are about to descend upon us. I can't decide whether you mad or are just now revealing hidden depths of fiendish ingenuity. You've explained this…proposition to Morloth?" At Boromir's nod, he asked, "What did she say?"

"She said she needed time to think about it."

Faramir blew out his breath, "That's a more favorable answer than I expected." His voice softened, "Boromir, what do you want from this? What could Morloth be to you? Your mistress? Your wife?"

Boromir looked away. "I don't know, Faramir. All I know for certain is that she is first woman that's meant this much to me in more years than I can count and I can't just let it go. I want to find out what she is to me, what we can be to each other." He met his brother's eyes defiantly. "Is that too much to ask?"

Faramir crouched near his brother's chair and laid a hand on his arm, "Of course not, brother. If it were up to me, I'd wish you all the joy of discovery. But…"

"I know, I know. _Father_," Boromir said, waving his hand in resignation.

"Have you explained that little…difficulty to Morloth?" Faramir asked cautiously.

"No," his brother said shortly. "How can I? Can you imagine…'Yes, Morloth, I care for you, and want to know you better, but don't get your hopes up that I might marry you, because my conniving bastard of a father won't let me chose my own wife.' Oh, yes, very charming, very persuasive."

"I'm sorry, Boromir." Faramir said, his heart aching in sympathy.

"I won't give up on her without a fight," Boromir said fiercely, "because that's what he wants. If I do that, he _wins_."

"But Boromir," Faramir replied, "if she agrees to your proposal and there comes to be something between you, she deserves to know. It would be neither kind nor just to conceal the fact that you need Father's approval to marry."

"I know that!" Boromir retorted irritably. Then, reining in his temper, he continued, "If she comes to care for me, I promise I will tell her—when the time is right. It is not my intention to hurt or misuse her, Faramir!" he added acerbically.

"And I know that, brother," Faramir answered with a fond smile. "However, if you want to conceal your interest in her from Father, you will need to guard your thoughts better than you have been, or he will know that you feel more for her than just gratitude. I could certainly tell."

"I will keep that in mind," Boromir responded dryly.

Faramir stood and stretched, then chuckled, "Well, that's another good reason to hope your friend Aragorn is successful in his claim to the throne, since as King his word would take precedence over Father's in this as in everything else."

Boromir looked thunderstruck, "Faramir, I never even considered that!"

Faramir smiled down at his brother, knowing him well enough to tell that his surprise was genuine. "I am glad then, that you haven't decided to rearrange the rule of Gondor just to impress your lady." Then his eyes were drawn east, toward the towering mountains and brooding clouds of Mordor.

Boromir followed his gaze and sighed, "Yes, all our hopes will yet come to nothing if the city cannot stand. What will you do, Faramir, hold here?"

Faramir nodded, "As long as possible."

"I will send as many as can be spared from the walls once I've had a chance to review the defenses. Have the beacons been lit?"

"I sent a very strongly worded 'request' that it be done almost a week ago," Faramir grimaced, "whether it has been heeded, I do not know."

Boromir cursed under this breath, "It will be done if I have to light them myself! Though if the attack comes as soon as you expect, it still may not be in time."

"Are you certain Rohan will come? I hear they have troubles of their own."

"When I stopped on my way to Rivendell, the situation was…worrying. Théoden has always been a strong, decisive ruler, but he seemed suddenly aged beyond his years. Théodred and Éomer did not speak of it, but I could tell they were concerned. And the Uruks who attacked us and took Merry and Pippin bore the symbol of a white hand."

"Saruman," Faramir swore, "our scouts report that Théoden has retreated to Helm's Deep and the wizard's army assaults them in force. None of this is very reassuring, Boromir!"

"I know. But Rohan has always been our most steadfast ally; they will have not forgotten the Oath of Eorl and Cirion, as we have not. They will come, if they can."

"Then I'll pray they can. Well, Boromir, we'd better get you on your way. I'll send a messenger ahead so it won't be too much of a surprise when you come through the gates." He offered his arm to Boromir, and helped him to his feet before continuing, "I want to speak to Morloth before you leave…"

"Faramir…" Boromir said warningly.

"Don't worry, she hasn't had a chance to visit her home for some time, and may not again before the attack, so I was planning to offer to send someone to fetch what she needs."

"As you wish," Boromir conceded grudgingly. "I'll go find a mount; I've had enough of that wagon to last me the rest of my life!"


	6. Chapter 6

_Posting this chapter feels like a bit a celebration for me, since I __**finally**__ finished my very long (45 chapter!) Baldur's Gate story. As a special treat, two new characters get introduced at the end of the chapter. New to __**my**__ story that is, but well-known and much loved favorites for LotR fans. _

_Enjoy! _

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Chapter 6

As he expected, Faramir found Morloth with some of the men who had been lightly wounded in the most recent skirmish. He waited until she finished bandaging a scalp wound to get her attention.

"Morloth, may I speak to you?"

"Of course, Captain, just a moment." She gave some final instructions to her patient and rose to join Faramir.

"Will you walk with me?" Faramir asked courteously.

She nodded, and followed him away from the others so Faramir could speak to her privately.

"I understand that you are accompanying my brother to Minas Tirith," he asked, watching closely for her reaction.

Morloth looked startled for a moment before replying cautiously, "Yes, Captain, since we must take shelter there in any case, Lord Boromor felt it would be safer if Cirlan and I were to join him and your men on his journey."

Faramir nodded, "Good, I don't think there will be any danger, but there's no point in taking needless risks. I know you haven't had a chance to return home since you began tending my brother, so I wondered whether you might like to have someone pick up a few things for you, or go yourself if you prefer."

"Captain, that would be very kind!" She smiled ruefully, "I have been wearing the same two dresses for nearly three weeks so I would extremely grateful for some clean clothes. There are also some mementos that I would prefer not to leave behind, but I'm afraid if you send one of your men he might have trouble finding them."

"Perhaps Cirlan could go," Faramir suggested, "one of my men could accompany him; if they go quickly they could get in and out in plenty of time."

"That might work, as long as you're sure he'd be safe. However, I'd like a chance to think whether or not it might be best for me to go myself. It is very thoughtful for you to do this for us, Captain, I know you have much more important concerns right now."

"It's the least I could do after you have taken such good care of my brother." He paused, wondering how to broach the subject that he most wanted to discuss with her, but wary of violating his brother's trust. "Morloth…" he began.

Looking down at her hands, she said quietly, "You know, don't you?" She glanced up and met his eyes, a hint of challenge in them, "You would not need to make certain we are alone to speak to me about fetching clothes from my house. Your brother told you what he asked of me."

By Eru, she was quick! "Reluctantly," he admitted, "I pressed him to tell me what had happened between you. I was…am…concerned."

"May I be candid with you, Captain Faramir?" Morloth asked.

"Of course, I would expect nothing less from you."

"Your 'concern' suggests that you either don't trust your brother to behave honorably toward me, or that you do not think such an association would be suitable for him." Her voice was strained, but she met his eyes resolutely, "Under the circumstances, I think I deserve to know which it is."

"Aye, you would. But as it happens, neither is true." Faramir paused to think; he must go gently, it was clear this situation was not one she was taking lightly. "Tell me, Morloth, why have you not given him an answer? Is it because you are afraid what he might do if you say 'no'?" Cringing at the mental picture of his brother's reaction to this conversation, he plunged on, "If that is the case, I assure you need not worry; if his interest in you is unwelcome, you may safely tell him so."

Morloth's response was immediate, "Oh, no, Captain! I'm not _afraid_ of Lord Boromir!" To Faramir's relief she seemed to find the idea absurd. Then, looking as uncertain as he'd ever seen her, she continued, "It seems that your brother has no concern about our difference in station, and that is to his credit. But I do not have that luxury. I…I fear that to do this I would aim too high."

Faramir sighed and leaned against a broken statue, suddenly weary. He should have guessed that he wouldn't have to warn her about that particular pitfall. And in many ways it made what was sure to be a difficult conversation easier, since she had introduced the subject of Boromir's position herself. "You are wiser than you know, Morloth, but not because your station matters to either Boromir or myself; it does not."

He paused for a moment, searching for a way to explain the situation to her. "Many years ago, almost twenty I'd guess, Boromir fell madly in love with a pretty young girl named Miriel. I was only Cirlan's age at the time, so I don't know all that went on, but from what I do know it was a typical 'first love' for both of them, though of course Miriel was very flattered to have drawn the attention of the Steward's heir. But what was not typical was the way it ended; one day, Boromir found that she was…gone. Her father had a minor post in the trade commission and he was suddenly transferred to Dol Amroth."

"Your father?" Morloth asked quietly.

Faramir nodded, "There was no argument, no discussion. She was simply removed from Boromir's life. And there have been other incidents through the years; some subtle, some more overt, that have sent my brother a very clear message that if he ever wants to marry, he will not be allowed the choice of his heart. He learned his lesson; there have been many women in his life since then, but none he has truly cared for." _Until now, unless I miss my guess_, Faramir added to himself, but knew that it was best for Morloth to discover that on her own.

"Your father can decide who he marries?" Morloth asked, incredulous.

"He cannot force Boromir to marry against his will, of course, but as the heir, he cannot marry without my father's blessing. And his blessing will never be forthcoming, at least not for Boromir's choice."

"But…but why? Doesn't he want your brother to be happy? Doesn't he want an _heir_?"

Faramir shrugged, "He says he does, and he occasionally suggests some high-born lady to Boromir, though always one that anyone who knows my brother would realize he would never accept. The latest is the Lady Éowyn, the niece of the King Théoden of Rohan. I have never met her, but I am told she is very beautiful. Boromir is fast friends with both Marshall Éomer, her brother, and her cousin Théodred, the King's heir."

"That sounds…suitable," Morloth responded in a carefully neutral tone.

Faramir snorted, "Yes, until one realizes that she is almost half his age and that he sees her more as a much younger sister than a potential mate. Boromir told me he could never look Éomer in the eyes again if he took her to his bed, even as his wife."

"But if that who your father is suggesting to your brother, then he will certainly not approve of me," Morloth said bleakly.

"As much as it pains me to say so, I fear that is true no matter how much Boromir cares for you. But that is no reflection on you! Though it will probably be small consolation, at this point I think they would oppose the other's choice on principle. They are both extremely stubborn men, and equally convinced they are in the right."

"Your brother did not tell me this," Morloth murmured, pain in her voice.

"No, and he will want to skin me alive with a blunt knife if he finds out that I did, though I think you deserve to know," Faramir responded. "But to his credit…"

Morloth looked up suddenly to meet Faramir's eyes, "He _could_ not, not without making it seem like a convenient excuse."

Faramir, eyebrows raised, regarded the woman in front of him. If his brother was somehow able to win her, he would have his hands full with a woman of such formidable wit.

"Your brother is a grown man, and a fine one," she said fiercely, "he should not be treated this way by his own father, Lord Steward or not." She squared her shoulders, clearly having made a decision, "If you would be so kind as to find me some parchment and a quill, I will make a list for Cirlan. I will be returning to Minas Tirith with your brother."

Faramir hurried to comply with her request, surprised but heartened by this turn of events.

"Captain," Morloth asked, "what was she like? The woman that your brother…"

"Oh, Miriel? Small, pretty, and prone to giggling, as I recall." He gave Morloth a warm smile. "I think it's safe to say that Boromir's taste has…matured since then."

-ooo-

Morloth was still fuming over what Faramir had told her when she reached the area where Boromir, Cirlan, and the five Rangers assigned to escort them to the city had gathered. Faramir had accompanied her to say farewell to his brother, and she noticed Boromir giving him a questioning look as they approached.

She spoke to Cirlan when she reached the group, careful to avoid meeting Boromir's eyes, afraid of what she might do or say if she did. "Cirlan, I have special task for you. I need you to take this list home and collect the things I've noted." She smiled at him, "And of course, bring anything small of yours that's you'd like to have too. The Captain will assign one of his men to go with you."

"I won't be coming to the city?" he asked in surprise.

"You will, just not with me. As soon as you're done at home, go straight to Auntie Gilien's house in the city. Can you find it on your own?"

"Of course, mother, I know the way!" Cirlan replied confidently.

She noticed that Boromir's horse had drifted closer to them, and she found her heart pounding fast at the thought of what she was about to do.

"I won't be staying with you at Gilien's" she continued, feeling a little like she was stepping off a cliff. "Lord Boromir needs me close by a while longer, and when the battle comes I will be wanted at the Houses of Healing, so I'll be staying there for the present. Send word to me there when you reach the city and I'll come to see you at your Aunt's as soon as possible."

Cirlan took this change of plan in stride, giving her a quick embrace before heading out, list in hand, with the Ranger Faramir had chosen to accompany him.

She mounted her horse and finally found the courage to meet Boromir's eyes. What she saw there was a look so filled with expectation and longing that it made her heart pound and her breath come short.

He smiled tentatively, "My lady?"

She smiled back, feeling rather giddy. "There are rooms near the Houses of Healing for visiting healers and for those who must tend patients overnight. If you request it, I'm sure a room can be made available for me. I felt that arrangement would be…unremarkable, my lord; that is, if you still wish me to be nearby."

"Do I wish it?" he asked in astonishment. Boromir quickly closed the space between them and maneuvered his horse so that it screened them from the sight of the Rangers waiting nearby. He captured her hand and gave her a look of such intensity that she looked away for a moment, breathing hard. "Morloth, you have no idea how much I wish it." Her hand was warm in his; he lifted it to his lips and kissed it lightly but showed no intention of releasing it. "And I insist that you call me Boromir."

"Are…are you sure, my...Boromir?" she said quietly, "It might cause comment."

"In private then, if you prefer," he conceded. Even though she had spent almost a week alone with him, suddenly she wasn't sure whether the thought of being somewhere private with Boromir was more exciting or frightening. _Both_, she concluded, _definitely both_.

A polite cough from Faramir brought them back to reality. "Boromir, I believe it would be…impractical for you to hold her hand all the way to Minas Tirith," he said with an amused glint in eye.

Boromir gave his brother a mock glare, released her hand reluctantly and said, "I know jealousy when I see it, Faramir." He chuckled when Faramir rolled his eyes. Boromir sobered and reached down to clasp his brother's arm, "Keep well, little brother, I'll expect you in a few days."

Faramir nodded, "Keep well yourself." He glanced up at Morloth and smiled, "Both of you."

"Move out!" Boromir called to the Rangers behind them. Faramir's men spread out to escort them, and they spurred their horses toward Minas Tirith. Morloth took a deep breath to steady her nerves, still a little unsure about this new and surprising adventure that she had found herself in. She snuck a glance at Boromir riding beside her, and he gave her a warm smile, looking as happy as she'd seen him in their time together. _Maybe,_ she thought, _it will turn out right, after all._

-ooo-

Pippin struggled to keep up with Gandalf's long steps as he strode ahead, muttering angrily under his breath. Gandalf had a few biting words for Pippin after he had impetuously offered his services to the Lord Steward, but he knew that was not the chief reason for Gandalf's irritation.

"Gandalf," Pippin asked, gasping a little with the effort of running and trying to talk at the same time, "why won't the Lord Steward believe us that Boromir is alive? You said he loves him dearly, you'd think he'd be happy to know that his son lived! And why won't he order the beacons to be lit? If the Dark Lord's armies come like you said, they'll need all the help they can get from Rohan."

Gandalf stopped abruptly and peered down at the hobbit, "Questions and more questions, as always, Pippin?" he said sharply. Then his voice softened, "Would that I had some answers for you, Master Took. Denethor has never welcomed tidings or counsel from me, so that may be part of it." He shook his head, "But you are right, that does not explain all; why does Denethor cling to despair when he is offered hope? There is something else at work here, something that weakens his will to fight…"

He fell silent for a moment, lost in thought, then straightened resolutely, "But that is not our concern at the moment. Boromir will return to the city when he is well enough, and perhaps that will stiffen Denethor's spine. In the meantime, the beacons _must_ be lit! We must find a way for it to be done, and done soon."

A man dressed in Gondor's black and silver was rushing by from the direction of the Citadel that they had just left, and nearly collided with them in his haste. Gandalf put out a hand to stay him.

"You were just in the Citadel, I saw you pass us a short time ago. What word did you bring the Steward? If you are able, please tell us!" Gandalf asked urgently.

The guard recognized Gandalf, and bobbed his head respectfully before speaking, "It is no secret, Mithrandir, soon all the city will know." He smiled broadly, "The Lord Boromir, the Steward's heir, returns to us after an absence of many months. Our Captain-General returns!"

Gandalf sighed with relief, laid his hand on Pippin's shoulder, and smiled down at the hobbit. Pippin felt his heart swell with happiness; as terrifying as his and Merry's capture by the orcs had been, it was made far worse by the thought that their friend Boromir had so valiantly given his life to save them. He and Merry had rejoiced when Aragorn told them that Boromir lived, but that was nothing compared to the prospect of actually seeing him again. The only thing that would have made it better is if Merry could have been part of the reunion too.

"That is indeed good news!" Gandalf said happily, "When is he expected to arrive?"

"Within minutes, Mithrandir! I am to have the trumpets readied for his arrival." He bowed again, and murmured, "Mithrandir…" obviously eager to be away.

"Go on, then, lad!" Gandalf urged him, and the guard ran off after casting a smile in their direction.

"Boromir's coming here? Oh Gandalf, how good it will be to see him again!" Pippin cried.

"It will indeed!" Gandalf said heartily. "And even better, it may solve some of the problems we are having gaining Lord Denethor's cooperation. Come!"

Gandalf had abruptly changed direction from where they had been headed, so once again Pippin had to run to catch up. "Where are we going, Gandalf?"

"The stables; we'll get to the gates faster on Shadowfax," Gandalf explained. "I have urgent business with Gondor's Captain-General."

_Yes!_ Pippin thought, and followed along happily behind the wizard. If only Merry were here!


	7. Chapter 7

_Sorry for the delay in posting-the good news is that I made some significant writing progress over my vacation and now I have up to Chapter 11 ready to be beta-ed._

_In this chapter, more Gandalf! More Pippin! And a certain disgruntled Lord Steward will make his first appearance in the next chapter. Enjoy!_

* * *

Chapter 7

They arrived at the gate just as the trumpets began sounding in the guard tower above them. The gates swung open, and Pippin held his breath as several riders trotted through, the first one of which was Boromir, sitting tall and proudly on his horse. Pippin called his name to get his attention, but a crowd had gathered to welcome their prince home, and his voice couldn't be heard above the noise.

Gandalf spurred Shadowfax closer, and the crowd parted to let them through. Pippin noticed a tall dark-haired woman riding next to Boromir and they were escorted by several men wearing green and brown, with the symbol of the white tree embossed on their leather armor. As they approached, the woman saw them first, and gave them a wide-eyed look of surprise before turning and touching Boromir's arm to alert him to their presence.

"Boromir! Boromir!" Pippin cried and waved frantically. Boromir started at the sound of the hobbit's voice, and turned, his face whitening with shock when he realized that it was Gandalf approaching him.

"Gandalf?" Boromir whispered, clearly unsure whether to believe his eyes. He glanced down at Pippin and his face brightened into a broad smile, "Pippin, is it really you? How did you come to be here?"

"Welcome home, Boromir," Gandalf said warmly, "you have been missed."

Boromir glanced from one to the other uncertainly, "I am sorry if I seem to have lost my wits, but Gandalf, I thought you were dead!"

"I was. I was sent back." Gandalf said simply.

Boromir shook his head in wonder and turned his attention to Pippin, "And I was worried to distraction about you and…" He paused and asked urgently, "Merry, is he…"

"Oh, he's fine, Boromir!" Pippin assured him, "He stayed in Rohan with King Théoden—and Aragorn and Legolas and Gimli, of course. Boromir I have so much to tell you! About the orcs, and Treebeard, and Saruman attacking Rohan…"

Boromir laughed, "Indeed you do, Pippin! I fear that my tale is far less exciting," he glanced at the woman next to him, "though it had some points of interest."

As Pippin watched, Boromir began to sway a little in the saddle, "I would get down and give you a proper greeting, but I'm honestly not certain I could get up again."

The woman sidled her horse nearer to Boromir's and caught his arm to support him so he could regain his balance. For the first time, she spoke, shaking her head in concern,"I'd swear he got through the last league on sheer will alone!"

Boromir met her eyes and smiled, patting the hand resting on his arm, "That, and the scolding I know you'd give me if I fell off my horse!" He turned back to them, "Gandalf, Pippin, this is Morloth, the lady who saved my life."

"Your friend Aragorn deserves some credit too," Morloth said wryly, "as well as your own stubbornness!" She turned to Gandalf and bowed deeply, "It is indeed an honor to meet you, Mithrandir." She smiled and added, "I am glad that the reports of your death were…premature."

Gandalf smiled at her and was about to speak when Pippin interrupted, "Morloth? Oh, I know about you! Aragorn told us how they found you and asked you to take care of Boromir. I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance."

She smiled warmly, "And I to make yours, Pippin. I'd only heard of halflings in tales and had never thought to meet one, so I admit I pressed Boro…Lord Boromir to tell me all about you and Merry."

Pippin brightened, "Oh, well then, you'll have to join us when I tell Boromir about our adventures. Being captured by the orcs was really horrible, as you can imagine, but most of the rest was very exciting, and of course we were happy to see Gandalf and Aragorn and Legolas and Gimli again. Then we met King Théoden, and he was quite nice too…

Gandalf interrupted gruffly, "That will do, Pippin. There will be time for your ceaseless chatter later, Boromir and I have urgent matters to discuss."

Boromir chuckled, "Well, some things never change, do they, Pippin?" Then he gave Gandalf a piercing look and said in an undertone, "Faramir saw Frodo and Sam in Ithilien; they were well and still intent on their task."

Pippin gasped and would have questioned Boromir, but Gandalf gave him a quelling glance. Gandalf sighed in relief, "That reassures me, Boromir, you will have to tell me everything you know, but not here."

Boromir nodded and asked urgently, "Gandalf, have the beacons been lit? Faramir sent a message some days ago requesting that it be done."

"No, they have not," Gandalf said sharply, "we have just come from discussing that very matter with your father, and he refuses to consider it!"

"What?" Boromir cried, "Why… Does he not understand how dire the situation is?"

"Gandalf tried to tell him, Boromir," Pippin put in, "but he wouldn't listen."

Boromir swore under his breath. Then he caught Gandalf's eyes and said resolutely, "At least this I can make right."

He dismissed the men who had accompanied them to the city, telling them to rest overnight before returning to their post in Osgiliath. Then he turned back to the three waiting for him and said, "Let us go, we have a beacon to light."

Boromir rode ahead, but Gandalf slowed Shadowfax to keep pace with Morloth's mount. "Tell me, Morloth, how is Boromir?" Gandalf asked quietly, "From what Aragorn said his wounds were terrible."

"Oh, they were," Morloth said lightly, though Pippin could see that worry clouded her gray eyes. "Not one man in a thousand would have lived past the first hour so grievously injured."

Pippin drew in his breath and asked anxiously, "Will he be all right?"

Morloth smiled reassuringly, "His wounds are knitting cleanly; he will mend. But it has taken a dreadful toll on his body; and it will be many weeks before he is back to full strength. I worry that with the battle coming he will try to do too much and put himself in peril, especially since his sword arm is still strong." She glanced up to see Boromir riding ahead of them. "Already he pushes himself past his limits."

Gandalf looked at her keenly, "But you did not try to dissuade him."

She sighed and shook her head, "This is something he feels he must do. I have only been acquainted with him a short time, but even I know it would be useless to try to deter him when he is so determined."

Presently they reached the stables on the sixth level, with Boromir leading the way in as grooms ran up to assist. Boromir started to dismount, but beside him Morloth gasped and cried, "Wait, my lord!" then dismounted herself and hurried to his side.

"If you insist, my lady," Boromir replied, but the look he gave her was warm and grateful as he moved to dismount with her help. His movements were uncharacteristically stiff and clumsy, and Morloth staggered a bit beneath his weight as he leaned against her.

She glanced at one of the grooms standing idle nearby and said sharply, "Some assistance, please!" Wide-eyed, the groom moved to help and she added, "Be careful, he has a wound in that shoulder."

"Lord Boromir is injured?" the groom asked in surprise.

Morloth snorted in amusement, then answered dryly, "Yes, I believe three arrow wounds in chest qualify as 'injured'."

Meanwhile, Pippin and Gandalf had swung down from Shadowfax, and Gandalf swiftly approached them, saying "If I may, my lady?" He moved to replace Morloth, easily shouldering Boromir's weight.

"I'll be better soon," Boromir said, heartily but not very convincingly, "I just need to get my feet under me and work out the stiffness."

To Pippin's surprise, soon Boromir was able to move with less effort, and walked slowly out of the stables, only occasionally needing a supportive hand from Gandalf.

When they left the stables, instead of heading toward the tunnel to the seventh level as Pippin expected, Boromir led them in the opposite direction, toward the causeway that led to the mountain's shoulder. But before they had gone very far, a guard in Tower livery approached them, bowing to Boromir before he spoke. "My lord, I have been looking for you. Your father, the Lord Steward, wishes to speak to you with all haste."

Boromir sighed wearily, "Of course he does." He looked up and met the guard's eyes. "I will come, but there is something I must do first."

The guard shuffled his feet, clearly uneasy, "My lord, it did seem quite urgent…"

Boromir bit off a curse, "Tell him I will come as soon as I may. As you can see, there is only so much _haste_ I am capable of at the moment!"

Chastened by Boromir's tone, the guard blanched and bowed in response, "I will tell him, my lord." He turned toward the tunnel to the Citadel and was gone.

Boromir glanced at Gandalf, "We must hurry, my father will send someone else or even come himself if made to wait too long."

Gandalf nodded and they increased their pace, while Pippin exchanged a worried look with Morloth. They crossed the causeway and were soon deep in the narrow and tangled streets set on the mountainside behind the spur of rock on which the city was built.

Morloth looked around her with interest, "I have never been in this part of the city before; we lived on the fourth level, as my sister does now."

Boromir stopped to catch his breath before replying, "It is mostly the servants and merchants who supply the White Tower who live here." He turned to her and smiled, "And it has one other landmark of note—the Minas Tirith beacon. We are almost there."

He led them a short distance further, turned a corner and stopped at an unremarkable door set into the rock. Boromir opened it to reveal a steep staircase of stone carved into the mountainside. "This is the entrance," he said, "the beacon platform is there," pointing up; they could see, far above them, a small dome set over a promontory of stone, covering the stack of logs that made up the beacon itself. "As you can imagine, this is not a popular duty station."

Morloth looked from the staircase to Boromir in horror, "Oh, Boromir," she cried in dismay, "surely not! You're not planning to go up there, are you? You would never make it in your condition!"

Boromir had found a convenient barrel to rest on, and puffed out a tired breath in amusement, "No, Morloth, I'm not that lost to reason. I was hoping that Pippin would be willing to go in my stead. I doubt the attendants will trust his bare word that I want the beacon lit, so one of them will have to come down to speak to me."

"I'll be happy to help, Boromir, though it does look like a lot of stairs," Pippin said, peering up into the darkness. "But I bet they would take my word for it if I were wearing my livery," he said cheerfully.

"Your livery?" Boromir asked, "What do you mean?"

"Oh, you haven't heard," Gandalf said archly, "young Pippin has offered his sword to your father as payment for your valiant defense of himself and his kinsman. He is to swear his oath as a Guard of the Citadel."

Boromir grinned broadly, "Has he indeed? Well, Pippin, as High Warden of the White Tower, I can only approve! You will look very splendid in the black and silver." He shook his head, "Though I can't help but wonder what possessed you to do it."

Pippin shrugged, "It seemed like a good idea at the time, especially since your father didn't believe us when we told him you were alive."

"Enough chatter, Pippin," Gandalf said briskly, "up you go."

Pippin started up the steep stairs, and behind him, heard Boromir say, "Father refused to believe that I was still alive? I don't understand why that would be. I find it troubling."

"As do I," Gandalf said gravely. "Even more troubling is the fact that he somehow knew about Aragorn; not only that a Northern Ranger fought with Théoden in Rohan, but his name and his lineage as well."

Pippin had climbed out of earshot, so he concentrated on keeping his footing on the steep stairs. Finally, he stepped into the sunshine at the top of the stair and stopped to catch his breath in sight of the two beacon tenders who gazed at him in astonishment.

"Just who—or what—are you?" one of them asked testily.

Pippin held up a hand for a moment to stay them until he finished panting, "Peregrin Took, at your service," he said with a courtly bow, "a halfing of the Shire. I am here at the request of…" he searched his mind for the correct title and happily found it, "your _Captain-General_, Lord Boromir. He asks that you please light the beacon."

"Lord Boromir wants us to light the beacon?" the second guard asked skeptically, "Seeing how he's been gone from Gondor for months and might be dead for all we know, we won't be lighting anything on your say so. Besides, if Lord Boromir is here, why didn't he come up himself?"

"He thought you might say that," Pippin responded philosophically. "Boromir couldn't come up because he was badly injured not long ago and the stairs were too much for him. And I must say, gentlemen, that if you have to climb those stairs often, you have all my sympathy."

"Too right on that," the first guard muttered under his breath.

The second guard sighed, "One of us will have to go down, I suppose."

"Your turn, Beregil," the first guard said firmly, "I went down to fetch the midday meal."

"Oh, all right," Beregil grumbled, "but if this is a joke, Master Took, I swear you'll regret it."

Pippin started down the stairs, and though it was by no means easy, it was much less arduous than the climb up, and he was cheered by the thought that unlike Beregil, he would not have to climb up again.

He reached the bottom and led Beregil to where his three companions were waiting. Beregil paled when he saw Boromir, and bowed deeply. "My lord," he stammered, "the halfling said you wanted us to light the beacon, but we weren't certain…"

Boromir waved off his explanation, "It's no matter, you were just doing your duty. You know that war is coming?"

"Beregil" Pippin said under his breath.

"Yes, my lord," Beregil answered, "we've been expecting the order to light the beacon for some days now, but we didn't imagine you'd come yourself!"

"Consider the order given, Beregil," Boromir said with a brisk nod. He pressed a coin into Beregil's hand and clapped him on the shoulder, "Treat yourself and your friend at the top to some ale with my thanks—_after_ the beacon is lit."

"It will be done, my lord!" Beregil responded with a grin, and headed up the stairs much more enthusiastically than he had come down.

"This way; I would like to make certain the next beacon is lit before we leave." Boromir led them to a place on the city wall a short way away where they could see the hill of Amon Dîn in the distance. The beacon above them flared into light, and as they watched the Amon Dîn beacon followed suit, causing the people in the streets nearby to point and gasp in surprise.

"Yes!" Boromir exclaimed softly, and Pippin noticed that the face of the comely healer standing next to him was the first one he sought in his happiness, and that somehow Boromir's hand had found hers on the railing.

_Well, that's interesting!_ Pippin chortled to himself, and it took all his self-control not to shout with glee and pound his friend on the back.

Gandalf smiled, "Yes, it's done, and well done, Boromir."

Boromir sobered and turned to the wizard, "I told Faramir that Rohan would come if they can…can they? Will they?"

Gandalf sighed deeply, "It was a near thing, Boromir. Saruman came far too near destroying Rohan for my comfort. They prevailed, but with no little thanks to young Pippin here and his cousin for rousing the Ents of Fangorn. Rohan will come, though not in the numbers they would have had even a year ago.

"I was able to free Théoden from Saruman's influence, which had left him aged and witless before his time, but Théodred is dead, killed by Saruman's orcs. Théoden has named Éomer as his heir."

Boromir gasped in shock, "Théodred, dead? Éomer is a good man, and will make a fine king, but this is evil news."

"I am sorry, Boromir," Gandalf said somberly, "I know Théodred was your friend."

Boromir stood silent for a moment, his head bowed. When he looked up he turned to the hobbit and smiled, "Pippin, it seems there is another tale I must hear from you. Which reminds me, I promised you a proper greeting."

With that, he knelt and Pippin needed no further invitation to step into a warm embrace. "Welcome to my city, Pippin, it does my heart good to see you alive and well."

"I could say the same of you, Boromir; Merry and I were so worried about you!" he pulled away from Boromir. "Which reminds _me_…" he approached a surprised Morloth, bowed deeply, and kissed her hand with a flourish, "Morloth, my cousin and I are deeply in your debt for saving our friend. Thank you, my lady."

She smiled down at him and clasped his hands, "You are more than welcome, Pippin, it was my pleasure." Morloth turned to Boromir, "My lord, you neglected to tell me that Hobbits are as courtly as they are valiant!"

"Oh, well, that's the Took side," Pippin said confidingly, to the amusement of the other three. Pippin glanced east over the parapet and something caught his eye; a deep black cloud that was spreading west from Mordor, against the wind.

"Gandalf," he said, starting to feel a little alarmed, "what _is_ that?"

Gandalf followed his gaze and his face grew grim, "That is the shadow of Sauron; a cloud of murk that he sends ahead of his armies to shield them from the sun. When it reaches the city, so will they."

Boromir shook his head, "Our histories tell of this happening when Sauron makes war, but I had never thought to see it in my lifetime." He swore under his breath, "The beacon should have been lit days ago! Now Théoden can't possibly arrive before Sauron's forces besiege us."

"The city will have to hold until they do," Gandalf said firmly. "Have you decided what you will tell your father about the beacon?"

Boromir smiled ruefully, "Through many years of dealing with him, Faramir and I have learned it is best not to ask for orders or instructions on matters where we may not like his answer. It is often…wiser to do what we see as right and then proclaim ignorance or seek forgiveness as needed." He shrugged, "I will think of something. What's important is that it's done and can't be undone. But now it is time to face him."

Boromir had struggled to his feet with Morloth's help a few moments before, and she looked at him with concern, "I…I know it is important Boromir, but must it be tonight? You're almost too weary to stand."

"Yes, I'm afraid it must; he hasn't seen me since I left for Rivendell, so he will certainly insist."

"Oh, I had forgotten that! My apologies; of course you will want to spend time together after so long." Morloth said contritely.

He laid his hand on her arm and smiled, "No need to apologize, Morloth, though I would like to assure him that I am alive and mending." Boromir glanced sidelong at Gandalf, "As it happens, there are a number of topics that I would prefer to avoid discussing with him if I can, so I will do my best to keep it brief." Boromir took a deep breath to firm his resolve, "Let us go."


	8. Chapter 8

_I'm posting this a little earlier than I anticipated, but writing is going well and I'm up to Chapter 15 in draft form. It's a little on the long side too, but I hope you all enjoy it!_

_And since I haven't said it recently, just want to add how much I appreciate your reviews! A big thank-you also goes out to CrystalSaffron, my terrific Beta reader! _

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Chapter 8

Night was falling as they reached the Citadel, and Boromir gazed at the steps leading up to the Tower Hall with distaste. He was determined to meet with his father as soon as possible, but he knew he was at the end of his strength and urgently needed to rest. He sighed and began trudging slowly up the steps flanked by Morloth and Gandalf, both ready to lend a hand if necessary, while Pippin looked on worriedly. Boromir was concerned about the upcoming meeting; matching wits with his father was a challenge at any time, let alone when he was so fatigued. He hoped that the presence of Gandalf would dissuade his father from asking him about Aragorn or the "mighty gift" his father had expected him to bring; Boromir definitely preferred to tackle those contentious subjects after he'd had a chance to rest and had a long chat with Gandalf.

The door guards, dressed in familiar black and silver livery of the Citadel, opened the doors smartly as they approached. They entered, and beside him Morloth let out a small sigh of relief; he guessed that it because they were in the antechamber off the Tower Hall and weren't immediately confronted by his father or the austere splendor of the throne room. When he turned to her he saw her face was pale and anxious, and her hands were trembling slightly. He fought down his initial urge, which was to take her in his arms to comfort her, and instead caught her hand and murmured, "Morloth, are you well?"

"I…I'm rather nervous about meeting your father, Boromir. Is it really necessary for me to be here? I can't imagine he'll want to make my acquaintance!"

Boromir squeezed her hand reassuringly, "If you really do not wish to, I won't insist, but I did want him to know who deserves his thanks for my recovery. You need not stay long." He smiled and added lightheartedly, "He can be rather frightening, but he won't harm you—I won't let him!"

She looked up, nodded, and smiled, "If you wish it, I can do it." Meeting her lovely gray eyes always made his heart beat faster, but this time it also did a leap of joy when he saw the trust written there—trust in _him_.

"Good!" Then, noticing a small writing table tucked into a corner of the antechamber, he exclaimed, "Oh! Now I recall there is something I must do for you." He went to the table, found a parchment, and wrote a brief note to the Warden of the Houses of Healing requesting, very politely, that they provide a place for Morloth to stay while she was in the city. Boromir smiled wryly to himself; however courteously worded, he knew that from him, the request would be treated as a command.

After the note was written, he found a page and asked him to take it to the Houses of Healing immediately. When done, he said softly to Morloth, "Now, my lady, you'll have a place to stay tonight." Her grateful smile and murmured thanks were all the payment he needed.

"Are you ready, Boromir?" Gandalf asked politely, though Boromir sensed he was impatient with the delay.

"Indeed I am," Boromir responded, "let us proceed."

They passed through the second set of doors that led to the main chamber, and when they entered, Boromir could see his father sitting on the Steward's seat at the far end. Boromir's heart lifted; as difficult as this relationship with his father could be at times, it was good to see him again after all these months. He increased his pace as much as possible given his tiredness, but before he had gone far along the row of columns leading to the throne, his father stood up with a glad cry and hurried to meet him.

"Boromir, my son! You have returned at last!" When Denethor approached closely enough for his son to see him well, Boromir was shocked at how much grayer and more bent he seemed than when he had left for Rivendell eight months before.

"Yes, Father, I am finally home," he said, as he embraced his father, "But what is this I hear about you thinking I was dead? You of all people should know that a descendant of the House of Húrin does not succumb so easily!"

Denethor pulled away and smiled at Boromir, a glint of tears in his eyes, "I am sorry, Boromir, I should not have despaired. But your horn was heard and then there was no word from you, so I feared the worst. Mithrandir said you had been gravely injured, but you seem well," Denethor added, with a distrustful glance at Gandalf.

"Yes, I was, and I am still recovering." He turned and motioned Morloth forward, "I want you to meet the person we have to thank for that recovery, the Lady Morloth, daughter of Menelgil. I would not be here today if not for her skill and dedication." He sent a silent apology to Aragorn, for he knew that he would not have survived the first hours after the battle without Aragorn's care, but he did not think his friend would mind given the difficulties it would cause if he were mentioned.

Denethor inclined his head and smiled tightly, "Indeed? Well then, my lady, you have my thanks and the thanks of Gondor for restoring Boromir to us."

Morloth stepped up beside him and sank into a graceful curtsey, "It is an honor to meet you, Lord Steward. I am happy to have been of service."

The Lord Steward turned back to his son, clearly having dismissed Morloth from his thoughts, "How did you come to be injured, my son?"

Boromir suppressed a surge of irritation at his father's treatment of Morloth. Boromir had seen him do the same thing many times to his brother, except with Faramir Denethor rarely bothered to conceal his scorn.

"It is a long story, but in short, Father, on my way home to Gondor I met a large band of orcs near Amon Hen." Boromir thought it unlikely that this explanation would satisfy his father for long, but hoped it would delay the discussion of his companions and their purpose. He turned toward Morloth again intending to tell her that she could leave, but he moved too quickly, and fatigue made him stagger.

Gandalf and Morloth were at his side immediately to insure that he didn't fall, but Boromir cursed under his breath; how he hated this weakness! Denethor, alarmed by his son's stumble, exclaimed, "What it is this? My son, you said you were mending, and yet you are too weak to stand?" He glanced suspiciously at Morloth as if holding her responsible for Boromir's condition.

"Do not…" With an effort, Boromir reined in his annoyance with his father, "I am merely tired, Father, and it is my own fault. Lady Morloth warned me that riding from Osgiliath might be too much, but I insisted."

"I assure you that he _is_ mending, my lord," Morloth responded, a hint of steel in her voice. "But it will be some time until Lord Boromir is back to full strength. He needs to rest, and soon."

"There are some matters we must discuss, Boromir, and they cannot wait," his father said forcefully.

Gandalf spoke for the first time since they had entered the hall, "Surely some of them can wait," he said genially. "Perhaps a short discussion tonight, and a longer one tomorrow after Boromir has had time to rest, hmm?"

Boromir nodded, "I can manage that." His father did not look happy with the compromise, or Gandalf's intervention, but accepted it without comment. Then Boromir addressed Morloth, and mindful of Faramir's warning, kept his tone as neutral as possible, "My lady, you may go; I will send word if you are needed." He met her eyes and he thought he saw understanding there that his formality was not indifference.

"Of course, my lord," she murmured, and bowed before leaving. Boromir forced his attention away from her and back to the others. He glanced at Pippin; he had been unusually silent through the entire exchange, but he grinned when Boromir caught his eye, his irrepressible spirit shining through.

"Perhaps a seat for Boromir?" Pippin asked in a deferential tone that didn't fool Boromir in the slightest.

"Excellent idea, Pippin," Boromir replied, "for all of us, I think. If I am going to review our defenses, it is essential I know what forces Rohan may be able to send, and you two have been there most recently."

To Boromir's relief, his father grunted sourly but did not argue, and motioned for a servant to bring three chairs that were placed near the Steward's seat.

After they were seated, Boromir took a deep breath and marshaled his thoughts; from long experience he knew it would be best if he brought up the subject of the beacons, rather than wait until his father learned of it, if indeed he did not know already. "Father, it appears there has been some misunderstanding between you and Mithrandir concerning the lighting of the beacons. He seemed to think you were against it, but he must have been mistaken." He turned to the wizard, "Perhaps your ears aren't as sharp as they once were, Gandalf."

Gandalf's expression was bland, but there was an unmistakable glint of amusement in his eyes, "Perhaps not, Boromir; a regrettable misunderstanding."

"But the beacon has been lit, I am told;" Denethor growled, "a wizard's trick, no doubt!"

Boromir chuckled, and even to his ears it sounded a little forced, "Not at all, Father, I ordered it to be done! I knew that is what you would want. After all, we need our allies in Rohan to come to our aid as soon as possible. Besides, it would not do to have our own people think we are unaware of the danger we face, or worse yet, have despaired of victory."

He held his breath, this was the danger point; he was hoping that knowing it was past correcting, his father would decide not to openly disagree with him. Boromir also knew that Denethor had other, more subtle ways to make one pay for disobedience that he might face later, but that was a risk that he was willing to take in a matter so important.

"Indeed not," Denethor said tightly.

Boromir relaxed; at least one hurdle was past. "Now Father, I would be obliged if you could enlighten me on the disposition of our forces."

-ooo-

A long, weary, hour later Boromir finally reached the door to his own rooms which he had not seen in many months. He dismissed the two Citadel guards that his father had assigned to escort him; Boromir would have preferred having Gandalf and Pippin accompany him, but Denethor had insisted. He had done his best to convey a silent message to Gandalf that Boromir wanted him and Pippin to come to his rooms, and he hoped the message had been received.

Opening the door he found Duinor, his personal servant of many years waiting for him, and his rooms clean and ready for him to occupy. He sagged in relief as Duinor bustled up to greet him.

"My lord, welcome home!" Duinor said, smiling warmly, "I must tell you that the Citadel staff had begun to worry, with you being gone so long. I'm sure your father and brother are very pleased that you are home safely. Here, let me take that, my lord," he said, deftly removing Boromir's cloak. Boromir dropped into a cushioned chair nearby. "Your gear was sent up a little while ago, including your sword, and they are stowed in their usual places."

"Thank you, Duinor; by Eru it's good to be back! It's nice to see you, too, Duinor, I hope your family is well."

"Very well, my lord, it's kind of you to ask. My daughter Anissa had another baby, so of course Indis is thrilled."

"You don't mind another grandchild either, I wager." Boromir chuckled.

Duinor's smile broadened, "No, my lord, I confess I do not." He eyed Boromir with concern, "Did I hear correctly that you were badly wounded?"

"Yes," Boromir said with a weary smile, "almost two weeks ago now. The danger is past, but I am still not at full strength. Which reminds me, the healer that tended me is here in Minas Tirith. Her name is Morloth and she is to be allowed in to see me at any time."

Duinor's eyebrows rose, "A lady healer, at _any_ time, my lord?"

"Well, perhaps not any time. Use your discretion, Duinor," he replied, and Duinor looked relieved. It was probably best not to scandalize the servants, despite his private hopes for his relationship with Morloth.

"But since I have been most sternly ordered to rest, you'd best get out my night robe. And two of the companions I traveled with these last few months, the wizard Mithrandir and a halfling, should be stopping by, please let them in as soon as they arrive."

Duinor's eyebrows rose even higher, "Mithrandir and a…halfling? Of course, my lord," he replied, quickly regaining his composure.

When Gandalf and Pippin arrived, Boromir was sitting up in bed, rapidly writing notes on a piece of parchment.

"Your guests, my lord, Mithrandir the wizard and Master Peregrin Took," Duinor announced as he showed them into the bedroom. Boromir motioned them over and Duinor quickly brought chairs for them to the bedside.

"Thank you, Duinor. Please have these notes delivered immediately." He handed the servant two notes and then turned his attention to his friends.

Pippin was gazing with wonder around the large, high-ceilinged room with the massive bed in the center. "This is very nice, Boromir. The rooms Gandalf and I were given are nice, but this is _very_ nice."

Gandalf's eyes crinkled with amusement, "You may have forgotten after all those nights sleeping on the ground and listening to Gimli snore, but your friend Boromir is a prince of the city, after all."

"I suppose I did! What were you working on, Boromir, if it's not a state secret, of course." Pippin added.

Boromir chuckled, "Nothing of that sort, Pippin. Since my father has seen fit to reaffirm my appointment as Captain-General of Gondor's forces, I was giving my orders for tomorrow, or tonight, to be more precise."

Gandalf puffed on his pipe and asked, "And what were those orders, if I may ask?"

"Nothing that will surprise you, I'm certain," Boromir said dryly. "I'm sending one hundred additional men each to Osgiliath and Cair Andros. They will go tonight. If we are to have any hope of delaying Sauron's armies at the river crossings, we'll need more men than we have there presently."

Gandalf raised an eyebrow, "Would your father approve of this?"

Boromir shrugged, "Possibly not, I didn't ask. However, since such decisions are well within the scope of my responsibilities as Captain-General, so I felt no need to consult him."

"I see," Gandalf responded, a smile tugging his lips, "Anything else?"

"As you heard, the Lord Steward wants us to defend the Rammas Echor and the Causeway Forts," Boromir replied, "but I am less certain that would be a good use of our men."

"Why is that, Boromir?" Pippin asked.

"Because we have too few soldiers to defend all twelve leagues of the wall with more than a token force," Boromir said grimly. "Sauron will have more than enough troops to surround it and break through at multiple points, so I fear that we will only slow their advance for a short time at the cost of many Gondorian lives.

"But the Lord Steward wants it defended, and so it shall be. However, I plan to call for retreat as soon as the Dark Lord's forces have broken through at any point, and have our men fall back to the city. I've also arranged for a sortie to be ready to cover the retreat, both from the wall and the river crossings."

"Shadowfax and I may be of some assistance in that regard, Boromir," Gandalf assured him.

"Your help would be very welcome, Gandalf," Boromir said with a sigh. "But that's not why I wanted to speak to you tonight. I know you wish to hear about Faramir's meeting with the Ringbearer in Ithilien."

"Yes, whatever you could tell us would be appreciated," Gandalf replied, watching Boromir intently.

"I did not see them myself, so I only know what Faramir reported to me but you are welcome to that. Faramir should be back soon and he may have more to add," Boromir said. Then, with a heavy heart, he related the tale of Faramir's meeting with the hobbits, including the close call with the Nazgûl and Frodo turning his sword on Sam.

When Boromir was done, they sat in silence for a time, with Gandalf pensively smoking his pipe. Finally, he shook his head and said, "I do not know which is more troubling, that the Ring is affecting Frodo so deeply, or that Gollum is their guide and plans to take them through Cirith Ungol."

"That's not a good way to go?" Pippin asked anxiously.

"There is no 'good' way into Mordor, Pippin," Gandalf replied with a touch of asperity. "Cirith Ungol has its own particular peril that would only frighten you needlessly if I were to describe it. But as much as I wish I could say there is clearly a better, safer route into Mordor, there is not. We must trust that the strength and resourcefulness of Frodo and Sam will see them through."

Gandalf glanced at Boromir keenly, "What do you plan to tell your father tomorrow, Boromir? You will not be able to evade his questions for much longer."

Boromir sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face, "I know. I hope he won't question me too closely about Aragorn, since there will be no point in discussing whom, if anyone, should take the throne unless we can survive the coming battle. But if he presses me for an answer, I will tell Father that I will support Aragorn's right to the crown. As for Isildur's Bane," Boromir shrugged, "he will have to be told that the Ring is not coming to Gondor. However, I want to be certain that Faramir does not bear all the blame for dashing Father's hopes since he made the right decision by releasing Frodo and Sam—the best decision for Gondor." Boromir glanced up at Gandalf, his chest constricting painfully, "And even more so since _I_ was the one given the task of bringing Ring back to my Father."

Gandalf's expression did not change, but Pippin gasped in shock at this revelation. Boromir met the wizard's eyes and said, "You knew, Gandalf."

"I suspected something of the sort," Gandalf answered mildly.

"And you know what happened on Amon Hen," Boromir continued, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Yes, Aragorn told me," Gandalf responded, his voice heavy. When Boromir looked up, he saw to his surprise that Gandalf's expression was not angry or scornful, but warm and sympathetic. "But I sensed before Moria that you were in peril. Please believe me, Boromir, if there was anything I could have said or done to try to turn you from that path, I would have done so."

"I know," Boromir agreed sadly, "I would not have listened. I did not understand as I do now."

Pippin, overcome with curiosity at what was to him a baffling discussion, burst in, "What do you understand? What happened on Amon Hen? What are you two _talking_ about?" he said plaintively.

"It is Boromir's story to tell or not as he wishes, Pippin," Gandalf responded in a tone that brooked no argument.

Pippin turned to Boromir and must have sensed his distress as he got up from his chair and sat next to him on the bed. "Boromir, what's wrong? What happened that hurts you so much?" he pleaded.

Boromir's heart felt like a stone in his chest, "I would not have this secret between us, Pippin. But I will understand if you do not wish to continue our friendship after this." He paused for a long moment, mustering the courage to continue. "Just before the orcs attacked us at Amon Hen, I…I tried to take the Ring from Frodo." He closed his eyes to block out the memory and the look of pained surprise on Pippin's face. "He fled from me. That is why he and Sam left for Mordor alone."

"But…why, Boromir? Why would you do that? You must have had a reason." Pippin asked imploringly.

"Does it matter? I broke my word to the Fellowship and violated everything I believe in!" Pippin didn't respond, but continued to gaze at him sadly. Boromir's voice fell and he said resignedly, "I did not understand. I thought the Ring could save Gondor—Father begged me to bring it to him for that purpose! And the Ring itself…" he shuddered, "I did not know how much it had been affecting me until the madness passed and I realized what I had done." Boromir sat up straighter in the bed and met Pippin's eyes resolutely, "But that is no excuse, I let it tempt me into dishonor. I was…_weak_," he concluded bleakly.

After a moment Pippin said haltingly, "Boromir, now that I'm in Gondor and I see how desperate things are here, I can understand why you'd want to believe that the Ring could help. We know that you would have never done what you did if the Ring wasn't affecting you, making you believe that you needed it to save your people."

Gandalf added, "Even the wisest and mightiest among us are not proof against the Ring's evil. Saruman was the head of my order and his lust for the Ring caused him to betray all he believed in and become a puppet of Sauron. I understand the Ring's evil better than anyone in Middle Earth save Sauron himself, and I would not test myself against it.

"There is something else I'd like you to consider, Boromir," He puffed on his pipe thoughtfully for a moment before speaking again "I know it hurts you to see how your father scorns Faramir, discounts his strengths and dismisses his efforts. To Denethor, Faramir is the son that must always fail. It is a heavy burden for your brother to bear, and I know you try to lighten his load whenever possible."

"Of course I do," Boromir replied, surprised by this turn in the conversation, "the way Father treats him it is cruel and unjust—especially since Faramir loves him and wants nothing more than to earn his approval."

"Yes, and you have your father's approval—but at a cost. If Faramir is the son that must always fail, you are the son that must _never_ fail." Gandalf shook his head, "If I had to choose, I would be hard-pressed to say which is the greater burden."

Boromir dropped his eyes, "I will think on what you have said, Gandalf."

Gandalf nodded briskly and got to his feet, "Good. Pippin, it is time to let our wounded hero get some rest." His eyes twinkled, "I would not like to face the Lady Morloth in the morning if we keep you up all night."

Boromir smiled sheepishly, "Well, as a matter of fact…" he began.

At that moment, Duinor let himself into the bedroom, "My lord," he announced, "the Lady Morloth is here to see you."

Boromir reddened and said, "Show her in, please, Duinor."

Gandalf and Pippin exchanged an amused glance, "Oh, I see," Gandalf said archly. "Come, Pippin, we should leave the lady to her ministrations."

Morloth appeared, and after a shy glance at Boromir, exchanged pleasantries with his other guests.

Pippin seemed inclined to linger and chat, but Gandalf was having none of it. He steered the hobbit toward the door and said, "I am pleased to leave you in such capable hands, Boromir. Goodnight, Boromir, my lady, we will see you in the morning."

They departed, leaving Boromir and Morloth alone together.


	9. Chapter 9

_There have been a fair number of Story Alerts and Favorites added for this story recently, which I very much appreciate. However, if you like the story—or even if you don't—I'd love to hear why. _

_I do try to thank all my reviewers individually, but recently some couldn't be reached by PM, so I'll say 'thank you' now. I do welcome your reviews, and of course those of my regular reviewers!_

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Chapter 9

After Gandalf and Pippin left, Morloth and Boromir gazed at each other in silence for a moment, both seemingly too self-conscious to speak. Finally, Boromir addressed Duinor, who was hovering in the doorway. "Duinor, is the guard who summoned Lady Morloth still outside?"

"Yes, my lord," Duinor replied.

"Good. Ask him to stay to escort her back to the Houses when we are done. After that, you may leave for the night."

"Yes, my lord," Duinor nodded and left. To Morloth's eyes he seemed relieved at Boromir's attention to propriety. Morloth also breathed a little easier; of course if necessary she could have found her way back to the sixth level by herself, but the prospect of wandering the halls of the Steward's residence alone made her more than a little nervous.

Boromir smiled shyly at her and gestured to the chairs at his bedside that Gandalf and Pippin had vacated. "Please sit, Morloth. I…I thought you might like to check my wounds to make certain no damage was done by the exertions of the day."

"Oh! Oh, of course, my l…Boromir," she answered, catching herself in time, "that is an excellent idea." She set her bag on the floor and pulled one of the chairs closer to the bed. As she reached for him to pull aside the fine robe he was wearing, she became conscious of a new smell, a faint spicy fragrance that overlay his own familiar scent. She knew that it must have come from his clothes or bedding, but the combination of the two scents triggered an unexpected surge of desire that ran through her body like a flame. She was suddenly acutely aware of the fact that she was alone in the bedroom of a man she found very attractive, and one who had made it all too clear that he desired her.

Sensing her uncertainty, he caught her eyes, smiled, and said, "Allow me," before opening his robe. She took a deep breath and reached for him again, but to her chagrin noticed that her hand was trembling slightly.

Boromir noticed it too, and searched her face anxiously, "Is anything wrong, Morloth?"

Morloth briefly considered what plausible lie she could give him, but then decided that honesty was in order. She gave him an embarrassed smile, "I now find it to be more difficult to think of you as just a patient, Boromir."

There was a flare of desire in his eyes and his breath quickened. "Do you indeed?" he asked softly, meeting her eyes. He searched her face keenly and added, "I suppose that is only fair, since I have thought of you as more than just a healer for quite some time.

"But we should not let that get in the way of you doing your job," he smiled and said lightly. "Would it help if I were a surly patient?" With that, he affected a ferocious scowl that made her laugh.

"Indeed it would," she replied, smiling, and bent to her task. Resolutely putting aside the thoughts of how close her body was to his and that she was touching his bare chest, she quickly examined the wounds. It was well that she did, for to her dismay the shoulder wound had opened and bled slightly.

"Oh dear, your shoulder wound has re-opened!" she exclaimed. "Not too badly at least, it bled a little and has stopped," she continued, giving Boromir what she hoped was a reassuring smile. "But I'll need to change the dressing."

"Of course, Morloth," Boromir replied, clearly not as concerned as she was about the state of his wounds. In fact, he seemed rather pleased that she needed to sit on the bed next to him to re-bandage his shoulder; to fix it securely in place a bandage had to be wrapped over his shoulder and under his arm.

"Unfortunately, I have used all the _athelas_ your friend Aragorn gave me, or I would apply it to the wound," she said, trying her best to maintain a professional demeanor. "I will have to ask the Warden if any more can be obtained."

As Morloth finished her work, a thought struck her. She looked up and caught Boromir's eyes, and said a little hesitantly, "Boromir, I have been wondering about Aragorn. There seems to be some mystery about him, and Gandalf mentioned his lineage as if it were important. I will understand if you cannot tell me," she quickly assured him. "But if you can, I would like to know his story."

"I can tell you," Boromir said easily, "as I matter of fact, I'd prefer that you know. But as I think you will understand once you hear the tale, it must go no further."

"Of course, Boromir."

Boromir paused for a moment, and instead of beginning an explanation, posed Morloth a question, "Tell me, Morloth, what did you think of him?"

At first taken aback by the query, Morloth replied, "What did I think of him? Well, one thing was certain, he was more than he seemed." She shook her head, "By his clothes you'd think he was a brigand, but a moment's conversation with him put that thought to rest, his manner was far too refined and courtly. Despite his ragged clothes, the jewels he wore and his weapons were of very fine quality. I trusted him almost immediately, and it was only later I realized how odd that was, given that I would normally have been more cautious." She glanced up and caught Boromir's eyes, "All in all," she concluded, "considering his height and coloring, I'd guess that he is of high Númenórean birth."

Boromir chuckled, "You are very perceptive, my lady." He held her gaze intently, "High, yes," he continued, "it could be no higher."

"What…what do you mean, Boromir? Your own house is among the most noble in Gondor, what could be higher than that, except…" her eyes widened, not quite ready to accept what he was implying.

Boromir nodded, "Yes, the line of kings. Aragorn is descended in direct line from Isildur, High King Elendil's son."

Morloth gasped, "Boromir, how can that be? Elendil's line died out a thousand years ago!"

"Here in the south, yes. But in the north it was preserved in secret by the Northern Dúnedain, even though the Northern Kingdom was lost long ago."

Morloth struggled to come to grips with the significance of this revelation, "But…that means he has a claim to the throne of Gondor!"

"Therein lies the problem, and the reason it is best that this is not discussed openly."

Thinking back to how pleased Boromir was that Aragorn had promised to come to Gondor, she deduced, "You would support his claim, but you are afraid your father would not."

Boromir snorted, "It is a near certainty that he would not. I'm not sure I would have if I had not traveled with Aragorn all those months and learned what kind of man he is."

Morloth shook her head in amazement, "When I think back to that moment when Aragorn hailed me by the riverbank, it is hard to credit how that one act changed my life so much; changed the world so much, at least for me."

Boromir smiled at her warmly and took her hand, "Changed for the better I hope, Morloth."

"Well, I could certainly live without the prospect of the city being besieged by thousands of orcs," she answered dryly, "but aside from that, yes, definitely for the better." She squeezed his hand, "Meeting you and getting to know you has surely been a pleasure, one that I would not willingly forego."

Boromir reached up and touched her face caressingly, his hand warm against her cheek. He murmured, "I cannot believe it is half the joy you have given me." He released her and lay back against the pillows, looking reflective.

Morloth realized with a start that she had never moved from her position on the bed back to her chair, but it seemed positively churlish to do so now. After all, he was being a perfect gentleman—he hadn't even tried to kiss her yet! She firmly suppressed the part of her that was a little disappointed that he hadn't, for Boromir was speaking to her again.

"My lady—Morloth—if I may ask, why did you decide to come with me to the city? Don't mistake me, I am thrilled beyond words that you did so, but when I asked you your reaction did not give me great cause for hope." He spoke gravely and his green eyes were intent on her face; it was obvious to her that he felt unsure of his ground.

Morloth paused to gather her thoughts, feeling somewhat embarrassed about how her decision was made. She smiled self-consciously, "I will tell you, but you must promise not to be too angry with Faramir, he did what he thought was right."

"Faramir? What does he have to do…" He groaned in comprehension, "He talked to you about me, didn't he?" Boromir's eyes, which had looked at her so warmly a few moments before, were now flashing in anger. "That…that little…_brother_!" he exclaimed. She could only imagine the words he had considered and discarded in an effort not to offend her. "He told me that he was going to ask if you needed someone to fetch things from your house!"

"He did, Boromir, he did," she said soothingly. She searched her mind, how best to explain it? "He…he also spoke to me about you…about us…because he loves you and he was…concerned."

"Concerned that I would hurt you, misuse you?" Boromir growled.

"No, no, he wanted to assure me that you would not! He told me that I could safely say 'no' if that was my wish."

Boromir crossed his arms and looked thunderous, "How very…_helpful_ of him," he said tightly.

Morloth mustered her courage and met Boromir's eyes; under the surface anger she read uncertainty and a deep sadness that she hoped was not her doing. "Boromir," she said softly, "Faramir need not have worried, my hesitation was not because I was afraid to say 'no' to you, but…but because I was afraid to say 'yes'. From the day we first met I have never been afraid of you—who you are—but considering what you are asking of me, _what_ you are, the Lord Steward's heir, frightens me very much."

Boromir's anger dissipated suddenly, like the wind going out of a sail. He sighed and looked away, "Oh, that."

Morloth took a deep breath and continued, "When I told Faramir that I was worried about that…that you are the Steward's heir and I am no one of account…"

A pained look crossed Boromir's face and he cried, "Morloth, no!"

She smiled at him reassuringly, "I know you do not think of me that way, Boromir. Faramir said it wouldn't matter to him or to you, but that it _would_ matter to your father."

Boromir's face flushed, whether with anger or chagrin she was not certain, "He had no right to tell you that! I wanted to tell you myself, and I…I would have done so when the time was right. But how could I have told you at first without you thinking the worst of me?"

She caught his hand in hers and met his eyes, "Boromir, I understand that, I do! Please don't be angry with him, I am glad he told me. As a matter of fact, that is what helped me make my decision to come with you."

Boromir fell silent, staring at her with a look of mixed surprise and bafflement, "But…but if you were concerned that my position as the Steward's heir would be a barrier between us, why would learning that Father would object help you decide to come with me?"

Morloth felt a blush rising in her cheeks and she looked away, "I know it is not logical, and not at all sensible, but Faramir said that your father would object to any woman that was your own choice and not his. It made me so angry that he would treat you that way! Why should you be denied your heart's desire because of your father's spite or his need to control you?"

Boromir let out a bark of laughter and she found him gazing at her with a broad grin on his face, "Far be it from me to criticize decisions made in the heat of emotion rather than with cool reason; I have been known to do the same a time or two." His voice softened, "But however you came to decide that I was worthy of your trust, know that I am very grateful you have done so. I will do my utmost to insure that neither my father nor I give you cause to regret it."

"But I still don't understand something, Boromir," Morloth asked plaintively, "why me? Surely there are many women who are more beautiful and accomplished, and women that your father would consider more suitable for you. Why go through all this trouble and effort for _me_?"

Boromir snorted in amusement, "Well, my lady, for one thing you are one of the most quick-witted women I've ever met, and I find it particularly baffling that you don't—or won't—acknowledge how beautiful you are." He shook his head in exasperation, "Do you really not see what I and others see?"

"I…I don't know, Boromir. I have never thought of myself as beautiful. My sister Gilian was the pretty one—all my mother's friends said so. I was too tall, and ungainly; my mother despaired of teaching me to be graceful and womanly! And when I decided to train as a full healer—rather than something more _appropriate_ like a midwife—that sealed it; there were dire predictions that I would die an old maid. Needless to say, it came as quite a shock when I caught Bregor's eye."

"Old biddies!" Boromir muttered scornfully.

"My father always told me I would grow into my beauty," she murmured, her voice breaking. Then she shrugged, struggling to regain her composure, "But he was my father. I thought he was trying to comfort me."

"No doubt he was, Morloth," Boromir said gently, "but I also think he was right. Surely Bregor…"

"Oh, Bregor was special," Morloth assured him with a quick smile. "Of course, he found me beautiful—or said he did—but he saw virtues in me that others could not."

Boromir gazed at her skeptically, "Faramir told me that several of the other Rangers would have been eager to court you after Bregor died if you had been willing to consider it."

She waved her hand dismissively, "They felt pity for my plight after Bregor was killed, and I'm sure they would have found it convenient to have a wife that was a trained healer, but it was nothing more than that."

He stared at her for a moment, mouth agape. "That…that is why you think they wanted you?" he asked, clearly astonished. Then he turned away, his face suffused with barely concealed laughter, his shoulders shaking.

"What…why are you laughing, Boromir?" she asked, feeling a little hurt.

Boromir regained control and turned to her, saying, "My pardon, Morloth, but I think you are giving the average member of my sex far more credit than they deserve if you think they were interested in you out of pity or even respect for your skills, as considerable as they are." He enfolded her hand in his, "However, if you truly believe that only someone as special as Bregor could appreciate your true beauty and your worth, I am content with that as long as you add me to that number."

"I…I can do that," she replied, suddenly feeling a little shy.

"But that does not answer your question completely, Morloth, though I do indeed think you are beautiful. As you have reason to know after my behavior in the cave, I am not by nature a thoughtful or introspective man," he said ruefully. "Though as a rule, Faramir is thoughtful enough for the both of us," he added with a chuckle. "But after you rejected me, I found that it…pained me to think that you were so dubious of my sincerity and my motives, though you had every right to be."

"I'm not sure I'd say that, Boromir," Morloth murmured.

"I would," he said frankly. "So for one of the few times in my life I gave thought to why I felt the way I did—why it mattered what you thought of me." He met her eyes, "In the end, I decided that it is because you…_challenge_ me, Morloth, as no other woman has. You are neither awed by my title nor frightened by my temper. You are your own person, and will not pretend to be biddable because you think it is what I want."

"And that is what you truly want?" she asked in astonishment.

"Before I met you, I would not have thought so," he said with a wry smile, "but yes, I find that it is."

He reached up to caress her face and her heart began beating wildly, certain that he would pull her into his arms. Instead, he sighed and dropped his hand, "I have an early meeting with my father, so I'd best get some rest before then." Boromir met her eyes, "Perhaps we can meet after that—so you can check my wounds again," he added hastily.

"Oh, of course," she responded, a little surprised by this seemingly abrupt dismissal. "I'll be at the Houses of Healing, you can send a message if you need me." Not knowing what else to say, she murmured, "Goodnight, Boromir," and rose to leave.

Boromir caught her hand and brought it to his lips for a lingering kiss, "Until tomorrow…my lady." He released her hand and she felt his eyes on her back as she headed toward the door. She turned once to give him a tentative smile and found him watching her intently. Morloth closed the door behind her, both her mind and her heart filled with uncertainty.


	10. Chapter 10

_In this chapter I decided to introduce a well-loved character from RotK that doesn't appear in the movies. Hope you enjoy it!_

_As always, reviews are extremely welcome!_

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Chapter 10

Pippin sighed and squirmed on the stone bench, his legs dangling uncomfortably a few inches above the floor. When he had offered his sword to Denethor, he hadn't anticipated that being accepted as a Guard of the Citadel would mean that he would be excluded from Boromir and Gandalf's meeting with Denethor, left to cool his heels standing guard outside the room. Denethor would clearly have preferred to exclude Gandalf as well, but Boromir had deftly maneuvered his father into accepting the wizard's presence.

Breakfast was feeling like a dim memory and he wondered once again how much longer he would have to wait when he heard his name called softly. Pippin looked up to see Morloth peeking through the entrance to the antechamber in which he was seated. When their eyes met, she smiled and gestured for him to join her.

After a quick glance at the door he was guarding to reassure himself that the meeting was not ending imminently, he rose eagerly and joined her. She said quietly, "I don't want to take you from your post, Pippin, but I needed to speak to you and I didn't want to disturb them."

"Oh, don't worry, I can see the door from here, and besides, I don't think they'll be done anytime soon…unfortunately," he added, sighing heavily. "How can I help you, Morloth?"

"Well," she replied, pulling a folded note from her sleeve, "I was going to ask whomever was on duty to give Boromir this note, but I didn't know it was going to be you, Pippin!" she said with a smile. "I suppose I can just ask you to tell him that my son Cirlan has reached the city so I'll be going to see him and won't return until midday at least. In case he comes looking for me at the Houses of Healing," Morloth added, reddening slightly.

"Your…_son_?" Pippin stared at Morloth in surprise, wondering he had mistaken his friend's interest in her. Then, remembering his manners, Pippin flushed and said, "I'm sorry, Morloth, if was I rude. I…I didn't know you had any children. Of course I'll give Boromir the message."

She met his eyes and smiled warmly, "Just the one, Pippin. Cirlan is staying with my sister here in Minas Tirith." Morloth chuckled fondly, "He's fifteen and thinks he's grown up already, but I think he'll still be glad to see me."

"And your husband; is he staying nearby also?" Pippin asked with as much nonchalance as he could muster.

If Morloth saw through this blatant ploy for more information, she gave no sign, simply saying, "I am a widow, Pippin. My husband Bregor was a Ranger, and was killed in Ithilien some years ago."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Morloth," Pippin said sincerely, nonetheless reassured that his initial assessment of Boromir's feelings for the comely healer was most likely correct. Then, remembering something that Gandalf told him, he asked her, "The Ithilien Rangers…don't they have something to do with Boromir's brother Faramir?"

"Oh, yes, he commands them," Morloth explained. "Lord Faramir has been their Captain for many years."

"You know him then? Boromir and Gandalf have spoken of him so often that I would like to meet him."

She nodded, "Faramir was very kind to Cirlan and me when Bregor died. He's a fine man and a fine soldier, like Boromir." Morloth chuckled, "There's no mistaking they're brothers, and as close as brothers can be, but in some ways they're very different too." She met Pippin's eyes and smiled, "But I have no doubt that you will be fast friends—he's just like Boromir in that way!"

"I hope so," Pippin said earnestly, tugging the black and silver tunic into place over his mail. "I was surprised they had a uniform to fit me, but Boromir me told that it was Faramir's when he was a boy. I'd like to thank him."

"I'm sure he'll be glad to hear you're using it. And you look so handsome in it, Pippin! A proper Guard of the Citadel. Her eyes misted with remembrance, "My father was a Tower Guard; seeing the Guard livery always makes me think of him—how tall and handsome he looked in his uniform."

"A bit taller than me, I suppose," Pippin said with a wry smile, taking in Morloth's height.

"Just a bit," Morloth agreed, pursing her lips on a smile.

Pippin heaved a dramatic sigh, "You know we hobbits are used to having men taller than we are, but in most places at least some of the women aren't too much taller. Merry and I decided that it's just unfair that the women in Rohan are as tall as the men elsewhere."

"Are they?" Morloth asked curiously. "I've never met anyone from Rohan, man or woman."

"Oh yes," Pippin affirmed, "the Lady Éowyn is very close to your height."

"You know Lady Éowyn?" Morloth asked in surprise. "What is she like?"

Pippin paused thoughtfully, "A little more slender than you, with long golden hair. Very pretty, but spirited; she knows how to use a sword as well as most men. You'd like her."

"Hmm, perhaps," Morloth said noncommittally.

"But unfair as it is that the women in Gondor are so tall, I've decided that you're just the perfect height," Pippin said, giving her a sly sidelong glance. "The perfect height…for Boromir."

Morloth stared at him for a moment in surprise, then shook her head ruefully and said, "You're very observant, Pippin." She caught his eyes, "But it's best you don't say anything about that around others, especially Lord Denethor. He would not approve," she added a little forlornly.

"I won't Morloth, on my honor. I only think I noticed because I know Boromir so well and want him to be happy."

Morloth briefly laid a hand on his shoulder and smiled down at him. "Thank you, Pippin." After a moment she continued, "Since you know Boromir so well, perhaps you can explain something to me."

"I'll certainly try," Pippin answered eagerly.

"Yesterday you were wearing a very fine gray cloak with a leaf-shaped pin." At Pippin's nod, she continued, "Boromir has one just like it."

"Yes, every member of the Fellowship was given one—except Gandalf, of course, he'd fallen in Moria before then—by Galadriel, the Lady of the Golden Wood."

"Oh, my!" Morloth exclaimed, "The workmanship was so beautiful that I thought they might be of elven make, but I had no idea… In any case, I found Boromir's cloak among his belongings, but when I suggested that he wear it on the journey here he reacted very strongly and said he couldn't."

Pippin's heart clenched. After last night's revelation and knowing Boromir as he did, he could certainly guess why Boromir would refuse to wear his elven cloak, a symbol of their Fellowship.

"Before he left, Aragorn mentioned something I think may be connected to it," Morloth continued. "He said that Boromir might be bothered by something other than worry for you and Merry; that he feels he failed in some way…"

Pippin nodded, "Yes," he said heavily. "He did something he shouldn't have and it weighs on him. His friends understand and have forgiven him, as much as forgiveness is necessary. But I don't dare tell you more; Gandalf would say that it's Boromir's story to tell."

Morloth shook her head, enlightened but dismayed, "It is clear he has not forgiven himself." She met Pippin's gaze, "I think I can guess what—or rather who—it concerns, but I do not wish to lure you into an indiscretion." She clasped Pippin's hands in her own, "Thank you for telling me what you could, Pippin. Perhaps Boromir will tell me the rest on his own once he feels more at ease." Morloth gave him a warm smile, "I should go, but I hope to see you again soon."

"Of course, Morloth, I haven't yet told you and Boromir about our adventures in Rohan!"

"I will look forward to it," she replied. Pippin watched her go with reluctance, and with a sigh settled back on the bench once more to wait for the meeting to end.

-ooo-

Boromir shifted in his chair; sitting was less tiring than standing but his wounds pained him if he stayed in one position for too long. He was impatient as well as uncomfortable, the discussion with his father seemed endless and he chafed to be out among the men guarding the walls.

Lord Denethor was questioning—not for the first time—when Théoden would bring his men to their aid. Boromir ground his teeth in frustration and finally snapped, "Father, they will come when they may, given that the summons was sent just yesterday. In the meantime, we have done what we can to prepare."

"Have we?" Denethor asked pointedly, "_All_ that we can? I asked you to bring me the Enemy's Ring, but you have not done so."

Boromir exchanged a startled glance with Gandalf and Denethor snorted derisively," You didn't think I would mention that in front of Mithrandir, did you? And I thought Faramir was the wizard's pupil!" He fixed his gaze on Boromir and said, "In all time since you returned you have made no mention of the Ring."

Boromir gathered his wits and replied, "I have not done so because there is nothing to say, Father. The Ring is gone beyond our reach, as I'm sure you know."

"Faramir let it slip through his fingers, that is only to be expected. But you!" Denethor's fist struck the arm of his chair with a thud. "I had hoped for more from you, my firstborn. You were to bring it to me—you know that!"

Boromir took a deep breath his quell his rising temper, "If I had returned to you after taking this thing, you would not have known me as your son. And I would not have yielded the Ring to you!"

"You dare!" Denethor exclaimed, "Where does your loyalty lie?"

Boromir sighed wearily, "Father, you have had my love and loyalty all my life, that has not changed. But the Ring knows nothing of love, and its loyalty is only to Sauron."

"Are you telling me that you would let the Ring master you?" Denethor scoffed.

"You know not of what you speak, Father—of the Ring's power. I have felt its call and you have not. Even the Wise are loath to test themselves against it."

Gandalf caught Denethor's eyes with a keen gaze, "Boromir speaks truly, my lord. I chose not to test my will against it, as did the Lady Galadriel.

"Once Saruman was your ally, and Rohan's, and counted as the wisest among us," Gandalf continued, "but his desire for this thing made him Sauron's pawn. Surely that is not what you want for Gondor and its people; to live as slaves bound to the Dark Lord's will."

Denethor gave Gandalf a sour look and fell silent.

Boromir scrubbed a hand over his face, his voice softening, "Whether you choose to believe us or not, Father, the Ring can neither help nor hinder us now. We must defend ourselves without it." He straightened in his chair, his voice taking on a more formal tone, "I ask your leave, my lord, to review Gondor's troops to test their readiness for the battle ahead."

Denethor waved his hand, clearly still displeased with his son. "Go!" he said dismissively.

"Thank you, my lord," Boromir replied, struggling to his feet with Gandalf's assistance. He bowed to his father and turned to leave.

Before they reached the door Denethor spoke again, his voice heavy with suspicion. "Would you have secured the Ring for that Ranger, Aragorn?"

Boromir's heart stilled for a moment and he turned back, meeting his father's eyes. "Aragorn would not have asked it of me, my lord." He bowed again, more deeply this time, and strode from the room as briskly as his wounded body would allow.

As soon as the door boomed closed behind him, Boromir sank onto the bench next to the door, hastily vacated by Pippin.

Pippin's pale face appeared in front of him. "Are you all right, Boromir?" he asked anxiously.

Boromir smiled wanly at the Halfling, "I am well, Pippin, I just need a moment."

"It was a…difficult conversation with Lord Denethor," Gandalf added dryly.

"Oh, I see," Pippin said, perching on the bench next to him. "I know what will cheer you up," he added eagerly. "Morloth stopped by some time ago and asked me to give you a message. Her son Cirlan has arrived in the city and she has gone to see him at her sister's home. If you need her, she said she would be back at the Houses of Healing by midday."

Boromir's heart lifted; it was past midday already. After the long, weary morning with his father the prospect of spending time with Morloth was a promise of joy. Then Boromir sighed; as tempting as it was, he had more pressing duties.

He smiled at the hobbit, "Thank you, Pippin, I hope to see her later. However, first I must review our defenses and speak to the men. They need to see me and know that I have returned to lead them through the coming battle."

Pippin and Gandalf exchanged concerned looks. "Boromir," Gandalf began, "I think that is wise, it will hearten the men to see you. But you should not go alone; I have other tasks and Pippin is still on duty." He turned to the hobbit, "Pippin, run and speak to the door guard and ask them to arrange an escort for Lord Boromir."

"Right away, Gandalf!" Pippin cried, and set off at a trot to the outer doors where the nearest guards were posted.

"That is not necessary, Gandalf," Boromir protested, "I'm not likely to be in danger, or even become lost in my own city!"

Gandalf's eyebrows rose, "I'm far more concerned about you overexerting yourself, my friend. It would not improve the men's morale to have their Captain-General collapse in exhaustion during his tour. Besides," the wizard added, his eyes twinkling, "I imagine a certain lady healer would have a few sharp things to say if you did."

Pippin reappeared accompanied by a Guard in black and silver, a tall, dark-haired man with a ready smile. "Look, Gandalf, I found Beregond! He says he'd be honored to escort Boromir."

Boromir nodded in greeting to the newcomer. "You know this troublesome rascal, Beregond?" he asked with a smile.

"Yes, Lord Boromir, I found him faint with hunger this morning but was able to direct him to the Guard pantry just in time," Beregond answered dryly, his face solemn.

Pippin blushed and Boromir barked out a laugh, "Yes, I'd say you know him." Then he sighed in resignation and said, "Mithrandir thinks I need a keeper, Beregond. So if your duties permit…"

Beregond nodded, "I just relieved Celeg at the door, my lord, and he will return and let the duty officer know to send a replacement for me."

"Good!" Gandalf said briskly. "Had you heard that Lord Boromir was gravely injured not two weeks ago?"

"I had heard…something of that, Mithrandir," Beregond said cautiously, "but nothing on the extent of his injuries."

"Three arrow wounds in the chest," Gandalf said bluntly, "it is only by Eru's grace that he is still with us."

Beregond's eyes widened and he glanced toward Boromir in surprise. Boromir grimaced and murmured, "Gandalf…"

Gandalf gave Boromir a quelling look and continued, "He is mending, but far from full strength and tires easily. You are to remind him to rest frequently and not overexert himself. If in your judgment you feel he needs a healer's care, or even if he proves recalcitrant about resting, send for the Lady Morloth in the Houses of Healing. She will take him in hand," he concluded with a decisive nod.

Boromir made a noise of displeasure at these instructions, and for a moment Beregond glanced between his Captain-General and the wizard, as if unsure where his duty lay. Finally he ducked his head in acknowledgement and replied, "Yes, Mithrandir."

A good enough soldier to know when defeat was inevitable, Boromir sighed resignedly and said, "Let us go then, Beregond." He took Beregond's offer of assistance in standing with as much grace as he could manage, waved farewell to Gandalf and Pippin and made his way toward the door.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Gandalf let out a relieved breath, "That went better than expected." He shook his head in amusement, "Boromir is extremely stubborn and does not like showing any weakness."

"Why is it so important for Boromir to go around and speak to the troops, Gandalf? If you're so worried about him doing too much wouldn't it be better for him to save his strength?" Pippin asked, his brow furrowed.

"Boromir is greatly loved and admired by the soldiers of Minas Tirith, Pippin," Gandalf responded gravely, "They are rightly proud of their Steward's heir; he is seen as a mighty warrior, bold, strong and always willing to fight alongside them despite his high birth. Faramir is loved and admired too, though he is not as well known in the city as his brother.

"The survival of Gondor will likely depend on the whether the soldiers of Minas Tirith can endure; endure the fear, the pain, the horror of battle until Rohan arrives. Boromir and Faramir understand that the men will fight better and endure more for a leader that knows them and is concerned for them rather than one that sits locked away in a high tower, far removed from their cares and their fears."

Pippin glanced at the door leading into the Tower Hall and said, "Oh, I see," under his breath.

"Yes," Gandalf said in a low voice, "Boromir would never say so out of loyalty, but he knows that the men would prefer to fight for him and his brother rather than their father. That is why he spends his strength to see and talk to the men—so they will spend _their_ strength, and their lives if need be, in the defense of Gondor. It is a grim duty, but one Boromir will not shrink from." He met Pippin's eyes and held them, "Do you understand, Pippin?"

"Yes," Pippin whispered.

"Good," Gandalf said his face lightening as he patted Pippin on the shoulder.

Emboldened by Gandalf's tone, Pippin said, "Gandalf, I have another question."

Gandalf muttered, "Why am I not surprised?" He raised one bushy eyebrow and prompted, "Yes, Pippin?"

"I was just wondering if you know what's wrong with Morloth."

"What's wrong with Morloth?" Gandalf repeated, his tone sharp with surprise, "Why, nothing that I know of—she seemed to be in good health and spirits last night."

"Oh, I don't mean that's she's ill or anything—I don't think she is—but when I mentioned how happy I was that she and Boromir…you know…" Pippin clarified, hoping that no further explanation was necessary.

Gandalf eyed Pippin shrewdly, "Yes, I believe I do know, and I suppose I should have expected that you would discern how things are between them."

"She wasn't upset that I knew about it, but she did warn me not to mention it around anyone else," Pippin glanced at the door to the inner chamber again before continuing in a whisper, "especially Lord Denethor."

Gandalf sat down on the bench and sighed, "You wish to know why Boromir's father would be displeased with their relationship if he were to learn of it."

At Pippin's nod, Gandalf went on, "The Lord Steward has a quite exalted opinion of his own heritage," his voice heavy with irony. "In his eyes, there is none nobler in Gondor—or the whole of Middle Earth—than the House of Húrin. Which is, I believe," Gandalf added dryly, "at least in part the reason why the prospect of an heir of Isildur is so vexing for him. Morloth's lineage, though not noble, is certainly nothing to be ashamed of, and it is obvious to me that the blood of Númenór runs strongly in her family as it does in some others here, noble and commoner alike. From what I have observed, Morloth is a fine woman and Boromir's equal in spirit, wit and courage." Gandalf shook his head ruefully, "But that will not be enough to persuade Lord Denethor to approve the match; and he must, if Boromir has any thought of marriage."

Gandalf pulled out his pipe and began filling its bowl with pipeweed. "I don't understand why those things matter so much if Boromir loves her," Pippin grumbled.

"I doubt Lord Denethor will invite your counsel on this matter," Gandalf replied tartly, a smile softening his words. "But I think there is something else at work here as well," the wizard added, staring thoughtfully into the distance. "Since Denethor lost Finduilas, his beloved wife and the mother of his sons, Boromir has been given his love and approval to the exclusion of all others."

"Even Faramir?" Pippin asked, his eyes widening in surprise.

"I believe—and hope—that Denethor still loves Faramir as well, but he does not show it as he does for Boromir. In any case, I suspect that if Boromir truly loves Morloth that it is _more_ likely for his father to oppose their marriage, not less. In his heart, Denethor fears that if his son loves another he will love his father less."

Pippin stared at Gandalf, thoroughly perplexed. "But…but Gandalf, that's not how love works! I've never been married, of course, but I'm sure you can love your wife and still love your parents just as much. Having more people to love is a _good_ thing!"

Gandalf snorted. "I know that, foolish hobbit," he said fondly. "I not trying to defend his actions, merely explain them."

"Oh," Pippin replied, and after a moment added, "Hobbits are much easier to understand."

Gandalf's eyes crinkled with amusement, "No doubt, Pippin, no doubt." He stood and said briskly, "Shadowfax could use some exercise and I'd like to take my own tour of the defenses. You'll be off duty soon, meet me at the stables if you'd like to accompany us."

"Yes, I'd like that, Gandalf. Some dinner after that, perhaps? Or even before?" he asked hopefully.

"I'm sure that can be arranged, Pippin," Gandalf chuckled, and strode out of the hall.


	11. Chapter 11

_A little pre-Thanksgiving treat for my readers...or at least, I hope it's one! Please let me know what you think!_

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Chapter 11

Boromir leaned against the doorway with a satisfied smile as he watched Morloth going about her tasks. She was working on a tray of bandages and just finished patting them into place, giving her handiwork a nod of satisfaction. He chuckled to himself; it eased his heart to see her like this.

Some sound or instinct must have warned her she was not alone and she turned to see him watching her. Morloth gave a little start of surprise. "Boromir!" she exclaimed, "I…I did not see you there." Despite his unexpected arrival her answering smile seemed heartfelt; she was genuinely glad to see him.

"No matter, Morloth," he replied, his smile broadening. "I like watching you work, as I did so often when we were in the way post together."

Boromir crossed the space between them and stopped close enough to touch her, though he did not. "Morloth…" he murmured, and then fell silent, content just to look at her for a moment. By Eru she was beautiful! It seemed perfectly natural to reach over and take her hand; it tightened on his and his heart beat faster.

"Yes, Boromir?" Morloth asked a little breathlessly.

He pulled himself out of his reverie with a start, feeling a little chagrined. "I would ask if you are busy, but there is scarcely anyone here but you."

Morloth nodded, "The Warden sent all but a few home to rest. There will be little time for it once the fighting starts and the wounded begin arriving."

"Must you stay?" Boromir asked, searching her face.

"No," she answered, smiling up at him, "I can leave at any time—I was just keeping myself busy."

"Good," His smile widened into a grin and he took her arm, deftly steering her toward the door. "Have you eaten?"

Her hand tightened on his arm, which Boromir found not at all displeasing, "I ate at midday with my sister and her family when I was visiting Cirlan, but nothing since then."

"Well, it is surely time then. I propose we go back to my room. Duinor can order supper for both of us and you can check my wounds if you wish. You can also tell me about your visit with Cirlan," he added with a smile.

"I…I would like that very much," Morloth replied, and his heart leapt.

After stopping to pick up her bag, Boromir led her out of the building. "I'm sorry I couldn't come sooner, but after our meeting with Father," he grimaced at the memory, "I had to review our defenses and speak to the troops." Beregond was standing near the door waiting for him. Boromir sighed and nodded his head toward the man, saying with a touch of asperity, "Gandalf decided I needed a keeper."

When they neared Beregond to Boromir's surprise Morloth cried out in wonder and delight, "Beregond!"

Beregond grinned in response and briefly clasped the hand she offered to him, saying. "Morloth, it is good to see you! When Mithrandir mentioned a healer named Morloth I thought it might be you."

"Beregond…oh it has been so long! How are Aerin and the children?" Morloth asked eagerly.

"Fine, fine, Morloth. Though we've often wondered how you fared in the wilds of Anórien, especially after Bregor…" Beregond's face fell, "We were grieved to hear of that."

"Thank you, Beregond. I like Anórien very much, though it seems I'm back in the city now, at least for a time," Morloth responded, glancing at Boromir beside her.

"So I understand. There's a tale to tell there, too, I'll warrant," Beregond said under his breath.

Boromir watched them with amusement. "I see that introductions are not necessary," he remarked dryly. "We are going to my rooms in the Steward's residence. Perhaps you could explain how you two know each other on the way."

"Of course, my lord," Beregond replied and walked with them to the tunnel leading to the seventh level. "Morloth's father Menelgil took pity on me when I was new to the Guards—grass-green and little more than a lad. I think he realized how all at sea I felt, so he invited me home for a few meals and introduced me to his family. It helped, and I've stayed friendly with the family over the years. Morloth knows my wife as well, and my son is just a few years younger than Cirlan."

"Oh, that reminds me, Beregond, Cirlan is staying with my sister; I'm sure he'd like to see Bergil again," Morloth interjected.

"Aye, I'll tell him," Beregond replied, and then said apologetically, "I'm sorry my lord, I shouldn't be wasting time reminiscing on duty."

Boromir waved off his apology and said, "It's been a long day and I'm sure your family would like to see you, so once you've delivered us safely, consider yourself off duty for the night. Just request a replacement to escort Morloth back to her room later."

"Yes, my lord. Will you need me tomorrow? Or if you prefer, I can arrange another escort."

Boromir sighed, "If I must have someone—and I suppose Gandalf will insist—then you will do. At daybreak tomorrow, then."

As expected, Duinor was there to meet them and all too happy to order a meal for them both. Supper came, and Morloth chattered merrily about her visit to her sister to see Cirlan, obviously relieved to find him well and content.

When she asked Boromir about his activities that day, he chuckled ruefully. "I had hoped to conceal the extent of my injuries, feeling that it would be of no benefit for the men to learn I am not at full strength." He shook his head, "Beregond knew better, and let it slip right at the outset how badly I had been injured. I was furious until I realized what effect it had on the men. Rather than being disheartened, they were impressed and proud that I had endured such grave injuries and had returned to lead them. The story sped ahead of us like an arrow in flight, and soon the tale was that I survived ten arrows and a thousand orcs!"

"The number of orcs is not far from the truth, to hear your friends tell it," Morloth smiled.

"In any case, they took it as a good omen for success in battle," Boromir continued, "and I pray that it might be so."

"The Warden said that we may start seeing casualties as early as tomorrow," Morloth remarked, her brow furrowed in concern.

"Yes, we heard today from the garrison at Osgiliath that Sauron's armies are massing on the east bank of the Anduin. The assault on the river crossings could start at any time." Boromir scrubbed a hand over his face, "Our one advantage is that the front is narrow at both Osgiliath and Cair Andros, so they won't be able to bring their huge advantage in numbers to bear. But still, they have so many and we have so few…it's not a matter of _if_ the crossings will fall, but _when_. Then we have to hope that the survivors can retreat to Minas Tirith—we need them all."

Morloth laid a hand on his and he grasped it gratefully. "Boromir, I know you must be worried for Faramir and his men."

Boromir snorted, "I worry for us all, but yes, tonight I am especially concerned about Faramir. I would feel much better with my brother at my side." Then he smiled at her, saying, "But enough of war for now, Morloth, I believe you wanted to check my wounds."

"Why yes, I would. Where would be convenient?" Morloth asked.

Boromir led her to a seating area in the inner chamber and gingerly removed his shirt with her assistance.

"I see you found a shirt that opens in the front," Morloth remarked, "that's fortunate. Trying to pull a tunic over your head with that shoulder wound would be far too painful."

He grimaced, "I found that out this morning. It was not pleasant." Boromir flinched slightly at the memory; it had actually been remarkably painful to bend his arm over his head when he first tried to put a tunic on, and then while Duinor assisted him in taking it off when it was clear it would not work.

"I imagine not!" Morloth replied tartly. "How did you get along today?"

Boromir made a noise of displeasure, "Gandalf instructed Beregond to remind me to rest often, and he was most assiduous in executing his duties. I found that I did well enough between rests," he admitted grudgingly, "though I am not able to push myself as I was before."

"That is understandable, Boromir. You are getting stronger, but it will be some time before you will have the reserves you once did."

"I spoke to the Warden before finding you, Morloth, and he said I could begin limited training with my sword arm immediately. He also gave me the name of a healer who can help me bring my shield arm back to strength."

"How long did he say that would take?"

"At least a month, if not two," Boromir growled, "as you predicted."

She did not answer, but simply smiled and continued her examination. At the feel of her hands on his skin, Boromir concentrated on breathing evenly and thinking of anything but the fact that it was beautiful, desirable Morloth who was touching him. At first he had hoped that it would become easier with time to endure this without thinking of how he would _like_ her to touch him, but if anything it had gotten more difficult since they had become closer. Boromir had briefly considered asking for another healer to tend his wounds, but he was not willing to give up any excuse he might have to be alone with her, or risk having her feel that he no longer needed her care. _Think __of __Father __eating,_ he told himself.

When she was finally done, she said, "Your wounds look fine; the shoulder wound has not bled at all since last night and they are all healing well. You can bathe now if you wish, just be sure to have someone replace the dressings afterward. Any of the healers can do it if I am not available."

"Thank you, Morloth," he said gratefully, firmly suppressing any images that the idea of bathing might conjure in his mind as Morloth helped him back into his shirt. "I doubt, though, that I will have time for such luxuries in the next few days." He took her hand and his green eyes met her gray ones, "I think I have been selfish, asking you to accompany me when we soon will have little chance to be together, and in such peril, as well."

"Boromir," she said chidingly, "together or apart we would both be here and would both be in danger along with everyone else—that is not your doing! I assure you that I am not sorry you asked, and I regret agreeing even less."

Boromir chuckled, his heart lightening. "Lady, if you insist on being brave as well as beautiful you will make it even more difficult for me to keep my promise."

Morloth seemed puzzled, "Your promise?"

He reached up to briefly touch her face, "Yes, my promise not to press my affections on you any more or any faster than you wish."

"Yes, of course," she murmured then fell silent, looking distracted.

"Morloth?" he asked, a little taken aback by her reaction. Had he said something that offended her?

Without warning, Morloth leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips. He gave a little gasp of surprise, and aroused by even that brief touch he reached for her to draw her closer but she had pulled away.

"Morloth?" he asked again with a hint of wonder in his voice. She blushed, unwilling to look at him. "My lady?" When she still did not respond he gently raised her chin so their eyes met.

"I had forgotten about your promise," she stammered. "I have been wondering why you haven't kissed me, but I see now that I needed to tell you that I would welcome it if you did."

Boromir laughed ruefully, as much at himself as at her. It had been little short of agonizing for him to restrain himself the night before and now it seemed to have been unnecessary! But any chagrin he might have felt was overwhelmed by the realization that he need wait no longer.

He smiled at her, his heart beating fast, "Again, you surprise me," he chuckled. Boromir reached up to touch the tie that bound her hair. "May I?" he asked breathlessly. At her nod, he carefully removed the binding and then, using both hands, loosened her hair so it fell in heavy folds across her shoulders, framing her face. "By Eru, you have no idea how much I've wanted to do this," Boromir murmured, his voice shaking slightly, "from the first moment I awoke to find you in my arms." Then, taking her face in his hands he bent to kiss her, at first just brushing his lips lightly against hers. She returned his kisses with a sigh of pleasure, and he reacted instinctively, his lips lingering and insistent on hers. He slid his hands down her back to her waist, pulling her tight against him and she responded by wrapping her arms around his neck and curling her fingers into his hair.

Wanting more but afraid to do too much, Boromir pulled away from her slightly and said imploringly, "Morloth, please tell me if you want me to stop."

She nodded, reaching up to caress his cheek, "I will, I promise, Boromir." At this reassurance, he kissed her again, slowly and thoroughly this time, and she relaxed against him, her body pressed against his making him feel things he had not in far too long.

He eased her down toward the cushions, supporting her weight with his left arm while he caressed her back and hip with his right hand and trailed kisses down her neck to the base of her throat. She did not protest, but as much as he wanted more, and wanted _her_, for the first time that he could recall he forced himself to consider the consequences of his actions with a woman. Already it was becoming increasing difficult to consider stopping and even if he could maneuver her into his bed, in his heart Boromir knew that doing so might break the fragile rapport they had developed. He wanted so much more than simple bedding from her and he found that it mattered deeply to him that she believed that.

Before he could decide what to do Morloth suddenly gasped in alarm and cried out, "Boromir!"

He reacted quickly, releasing her and asking anxiously, "Morloth, are you well? Have I done too much?"

"Your shoulder, Boromir," she replied breathlessly, "you were holding me on your wounded side and I'm too heavy—you might re-injure it."

"My…shoulder," he said slowly, at first unsure whether he had heard correctly. He stared at her for a long moment, one eyebrow raised in disbelief and exasperation. Morloth reddened, looking a little worried at his reaction.

Meeting her eyes, his voice calm, Boromir said distinctly, "Damn my shoulder."

Seeing the amusement in his face Morloth laughed too, remarking, "Damrod was right, Boromir, you _are_ a terrible patient." She reached up and touched his face, with a look of such tenderness that his breath caught in his throat.

Trying to keep the mood light, Boromir snorted derisively, "Morloth, I only try to better myself in areas I where I wish to improve, and I assure you that being a patient is not one of them." He grinned, putting his arm around her—his right arm this time—and pulled her close. "Kissing you, however, definitely requires more practice."

To Morloth's obvious pleasure he was soon suiting actions to words, but a few moments later there was a loud knock on the door. Boromir swore loudly and let her go, feeling aggrieved. By the time he called "Come in!" they were sitting a discrete distance apart, though he was fairly certain that their recent activities would not be difficult to discern from their rumpled clothes and flushed faces.

It was Duinor. Far too well trained to show any reaction to their appearance, he said simply, "An urgent message for you, my lord." He handed the message to Boromir and departed, closing the door behind him.

Boromir quickly scanned the message and his heart sank. He sat back on the cushions, his face grim. "It has begun. Sauron's army is assaulting the river crossings in force."

"Oh!" Morloth drew in a breath in dismay and reached for Boromir's hand. "I…I knew it was coming, but still…" She squeezed Boromir's hand and said resolutely, "I will pray for the safe return of Faramir and the other brave men there."

He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it tenderly, "Thank you, Morloth."

She met his eyes, "I should go, Boromir. You should rest while you can, you will be needed tomorrow."

"Yes," he agreed reluctantly, "and you will be needed too." They walked to the door together, Boromir's arm around her waist. At the door Boromir paused, and pulled her close while struggling to find the right words, "Morloth, I hope you know how much tonight has meant to me, how much _you_ mean to me… I don't want you to go, though I know you should."

"I know, Boromir, I don't want to go either," she murmured. She kissed him lightly on the lips, then more deeply as he held her tightly.

He broke the kiss, touching his forehead to hers, their eyes met and held. Breathing heavily, he said, "Perhaps someday, you won't have to." She caught her breath and then nodded a little shyly, giving his cheek one last fleeting caress before departing.


	12. Chapter 12

_A new face appears in this chapter, and Faramir is back! Hope you all enjoy it._

_Also, several more readers have put the story on their Favorites list...I appreciate that very much but I would be especially grateful for a review!_

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Chapter 12

Boromir was awake and dressed by the time Beregond arrived at dawn the next day. "Come." Boromir said to the Guardsman, "The healers have given me leave to practice my swordsmanship again, so you'll do as a sparring partner."

Beregond glanced from Boromir's worn and comfortable clothing to his own spotless uniform and protested, "I'm hardly dressed for that, my lord!"

"Then take off your overtunic if you wish; I doubt I'll have the strength to practice for long." He thumped the hilt of his sword with his hand, "It's been two weeks or more since I've drawn a sword and I'm not disposed to wait any longer."

Beregond had never sparred with the Captain-General before, though he had heard tales of his prowess. So he did not know exactly what to expect when they stepped into the practice ring. Boromir handled the exchange of warm-up strokes with ease, before suddenly delivering a series of flashing blows that forced Beregond to give ground. Beregond received a touch on the arm and narrowly averted one to his ribs before he regained his momentum. Then, as abruptly as Boromir had begun he stopped, clutching his left side, his face pale and covered in sweat.

"My lord!" Beregond cried, quickly sheathing his sword and rushing to Boromir's aid. "Should I send for a healer?" he asked anxiously before helping Boromir to a bench on the side of the ring.

"No, no," Boromir assured him, "I don't believe any lasting damage was done." Boromir grimaced, "Or at least I hope not, Morloth will skin me if I've re-opened one of the wounds. Regardless, it was an ample reminder that there are things that I cannot yet do."

"Well, my lord," Beregond remarked wryly, "there's strength and skill aplenty in your sword arm still, that much is clear."

Boromir chuckled breathlessly; his color was already better and he seemed to be sitting up with little pain, "If my sword arm was all that was needed, I'd be in fine shape."

"The rest will come in time, my lord," Beregond assured him.

"Time I do not have!" Boromir said fiercely. He met the Guardsman's eyes, "I know that I cannot fight on the front lines and I know you and the other men will protect me if you can, but I must be able to at least defend myself!"

Beregond nodded and offered his arm to Boromir. "I understand, my lord. What would you like to do?"

Boromir stood with his assistance and strode back into the practice ring. "I think I have another half-glass in me. I may not be able to spar as I'm accustomed to, but at least I can practice the strokes I can manage and identify the ones I cannot."

-ooo-

Sometime later Boromir was directing final preparations for the siege from a command center he had established on the third level. But like most others in Minas Tirith his eyes often strayed east to the ominous black cloud that spread ever closer to them. Concealed in the darkness the river crossings were holding, but barely. All knew it was just a matter of time before they would be overwhelmed.

The sound of trumpets brought Boromir back to the present time and place, and he made his way to the main gate on the first level. Boromir's heart lifted, there was at least some good news to be had this day, for the trumpets heralded the arrival of a contingent from Dol Amroth, which they had been watching approach for a glass or more.

A large group of knights—the Swan Knights—as well as several companies of foot were making their way into the city; all commanded by Boromir's uncle, Prince Imrahil. The Prince had dismounted and had just handed his horse off to a groom when Boromir arrived.

Imrahil's face brightened when he saw his nephew; they clasped arms in greeting and Boromir nodded to his cousins, Imrahil's three tall sons who had accompanied him.

"Uncle, welcome," Boromir cried, "you are all most welcome!" Surprised to see all of Imrahil's sons, he added, "We need all the help we can get, but who is left to command in Dol Amroth?"

"Lothiríel," Imrahil said shortly, "and none too happy about it either. She made quite the plea to accompany us."

"I can imagine," Boromir chuckled. "Have you checked to make sure that none of your knights is a lady in disguise?"

"No, but I made certain that my daughter was the last person I saw as we rode away." His uncle replied dryly. "She was standing at the gate as we left, her face like a thundercloud."

Imrahil sobered and held Boromir at arm's length, "And how do you fare, Boromir? On the journey here a courier brought us the happy news that you had returned, though badly injured. But you look well."

Boromir sighed heavily, "Well enough, Uncle, to greet you and stand around giving orders, but not as I should be. A half glass in the practice ring this morning left me exhausted."

"Boromir," Imrahil admonished, "a skilled arm and a strong body are not all that makes a good Captain, I've heard you say so yourself more than once. It's unlikely that one man's sword will turn the tide of this war, but one man's ability to inspire others may be. You are where we need you to be, Boromir."

Boromir nodded, at least somewhat reassured.

"Where is Faramir?" Imrahil inquired as they made their way to the gate for the second level.

"Commanding in Osgiliath," Boromir told him. "The river crossings are beset and we expect them to fall at any time."

"The beacons have been lit, I hear."

Boromir met his eyes, "Just two days ago, when I returned."

"Ah," his uncle murmured, understanding more than was said. "What news from Théoden?"

"Mithrandir is here, having just come from Rohan." He shook his head in dismay, "Saruman hit them hard, Uncle. Rohan was victorious, but the battle took a heavy toll. All will come that can, but they can only have left today at the earliest. Even at their swiftest they will need at least four days to make the journey."

Imrahil grunted, "More likely five. Well, we will simply have to hold until then."

Boromir snorted, "That's what Mithrandir said, Uncle."

"Then I can count myself among the Wise," Imrahil chuckled. "I should pay my respects to your father, Boromir. Would you like to accompany me?"

"Best not," Boromir replied with a bitter laugh. "Father is none too pleased with me at the moment. We have a difference of opinion concerning the beacons and…other matters."

Before Imrahil could respond a courier hurried up to Boromir, saying, "An urgent message for your attention, my lord."

Boromir took the message and read it quickly. When he looked up to meet Imrahil's eyes, his face was grim, "Cair Andros has fallen."

He caught the attention of a scribe that had come with him from the third level. "Draft the following orders: the second mounted accompany is to leave for Cair Andros immediately to provide an escort for the garrison there as it withdraws. To Captain Faramir of the Osgiliath garrison, commence an immediate withdrawal to Minas Tirith. The third mounted company that accompanies this order will be at your disposal as a rearguard during the retreat. Third mounted company—you know what to say. Have the orders ready for my signature as soon as possible."

"Yes, my lord," the scribe murmured before hurrying away.

Boromir sighed and rubbed his eyes, "Much as I regret abandoning our position in Osgiliath, we cannot risk having their line of retreat cut by the enemy crossing at Cair Andros."

"If my knights and I could be of any assistance…" Imrahil offered gravely.

"Thank you Uncle, but that will not be necessary. There are mounted troops waiting at the Rammas Echor for this purpose and they can make the journey to the river much more quickly. Besides, both the men and their mounts are well rested—there's no need to ask more of your men today. We will doubtless need all of them soon enough."

Imrahil nodded and briefly clasped his nephew's shoulder. "I will inform Lord Denethor."

-ooo-

"Where _are_ they?" Boromir murmured, his eyes trained east, looking for any sign of the Osgiliath garrison; he was certain the survivors should be visible by now. Earlier he had received word from the Causeway Forts that they were on their way, but no specifics as to the number. The remnants of the force defending Cair Andros had limped in earlier, with those wounded strong enough to make the return journey. His thoughts turned to Morloth, undoubtedly hard at work tending them at the Houses of Healing, and he resolved to check the wounded himself once Faramir and his men had returned.

His heart twisted in anxiety; the report that the Osgiliath troops were retreating did not say whether his brother was among them. "Damn!" Boromir exclaimed, "I should have argued against trying to hold the river crossings! I knew it would be a bad bargain if too many men were lost!" Then, realizing that his words might be taken as a criticism of his father's policies, he glanced quickly to Beregond, standing beside him on the battlements.

But Beregond seemed not to have heard, he was staring east as Boromir had been moments before. "My lord, look!" he exclaimed pointing to a dust cloud just visible on the plain stretching below them. Now others must have seen it also, for cries could be heard from all along the walls.

Boromir sighed in relief and sent a silent plea that his brother was with them and unharmed. The dust cloud grew steadily larger and soon he could discern horses and men with the company's banner floating proudly above them. Then his eyes were caught by five black shapes that appeared above the retreating men; he would have suspected crows or some other carrion bird, but he knew they would be much too small to be seen at this distance. Boromir felt a chill that had nothing to do with crisp spring air; "By Eru," he whispered in dismay. A piercing cry rent the air, his worst fears realized. Even at this distance the sound made him shake and his knees tremble; he could only imagine how it must be for Faramir and his men.

"Nazgûl," he breathed, and exchanged a look of horror with Beregond. As they watched, there was another wailing cry the Ringwraiths dropped toward the riders, felling several horses and causing twice that number to flee in panic. Some of the Nazgûl began systematically picking off the scattered riders while the rest continued to harass the main group. Despite that, the majority of the company was making steady progress toward the city gates, until one rider suddenly reined in his horse and turned to aid the beleaguered men, attempting to reintegrate them into the larger force. This seemed to send the Ringwraiths into a frenzy, for they redoubled their efforts to panic the men and their horses.

"That'll be your brother, I'd wager," Beregond murmured, "he can master both beasts and men."

This was a mixed blessing for Boromir; he now had some proof that his brother was in the group of survivors nearing the city, but Faramir had just made himself a special target for the Nazgûl's ire.

"There must be something we can do!" Boromir exclaimed, striking the parapet in frustration. He was frantically searching his mind for a way to get assistance to his brother and his men in time to save them when he heard the main gate rumble open two levels below. In the next moment, a brilliant figure in white shot from the gate, horse and rider gleaming in the fading sunlight.

"Gandalf!" Boromir cried, his heart lifting with renewed hope.

Below him, someone shouted, "The White Rider flies to their aid!" All around, other voices took up the cry, "The White Rider!" Shadowfax sped toward Faramir's company, his hooves hardly seeming to touch the ground as he ran. As they neared the struggling men, Gandalf raised his staff and called out in a commanding voice. A radiant beam of light burst from the staff, striking the black-cloaked riders and their beasts as they swooped toward their prey. Again they shrieked, but this time in dismay, robbing their voices of the power to weaken and terrorize. They wheeled away, defeated, flying east to return to their master.

Boromir took just a moment to assure himself that the survivors of the retreat were again moving toward the city before turning to make his way to the main gate, Beregond following close behind. When they reached the first level, the survivors of the retreat were already streaming through the gate and Boromir tried to get a rough count of how many there were. He blew out a long breath and shook his head; there were fewer than he had hoped, but more than he had feared. He found an officer who was checking the incoming troops for injuries and told him, "Leave the wounded on their mounts if they can ride and send them directly to the Houses of Healing. I'll have someone take charge of the horses if the stable on the sixth level is full." The officer nodded in understanding and continued directing the incoming men.

He turned to see the last few men coming through the gates, including Damrod with a heavily bandaged arm. Behind him rode Faramir with Gandalf, and to Boromir's profound relief Faramir looked well, except for a bloody cut over one eye.

Faramir turned to Gandalf and said, "I don't believe we've met."

Boromir was baffled by the comment until Pippin's cheerful voice responded, "Peregrin Took at your service, Captain." It was only then that Boromir realized that Pippin was sitting in front of Gandalf on Shadowfax, and must have been through the entire confrontation with the Nazgûl.

Faramir bowed and replied, "Unless there has been a dramatic increase in the halfling population in Gondor, you must be one of Boromir's friends. He was very worried about you."

Boromir pushed through the crowd to reach the side of Faramir's horse and growled, "And you have given me another reason to worry, little brother!"

Faramir's face brightened when he saw Boromir and he immediately slid off his horse, wincing and favoring one leg when he put weight on it. He pulled his brother into an embrace and said, "Boromir, you are looking much hardier than the last time I saw you!"

"I wish I could say the same, Faramir," his brother replied testily, "why are you limping?"

"Spear butt to the leg," Faramir said shortly, "painful, but not serious."

"Get back on your horse, little brother; you're going to the Houses of Healing." Boromir told him firmly.

"It's nothing, Boromir!" Faramir protested.

"Morloth should at least look at it, and she can stitch up that cut while you're there." When it seemed that Faramir might continue the argument, Boromir raised one eyebrow and added sternly, "That's an order, Captain."

"Hmph," Faramir replied with a wry smile, "I knew that being appointed Captain-General would go to your head eventually. I'm surprised it took this long!"

At that moment Gandalf rode up and helped Pippin down from Shadowfax's back. "Gentlemen, I am leaving young Master Took in your care, he must be on duty presently and there are some horses that ran far afield when the Nazgûl attacked. I would not leave them to the mercies of those vile creatures should they come back." He caught Faramir's eyes and held them intently, "I must speak to you soon, Faramir, and I believe you know what about."

"He'll be in the Houses of Healing, Gandalf, you can find him there," Boromir explained.

Faramir sighed resignedly, "Yes, look for me there, or my rooms. Unless Father sends to speak to me first," he added tightly.

Gandalf and Boromir exchanged a glance. "He can wait until your injuries have been treated," Boromir said gruffly. The wizard nodded farewell and sped out the gate once more.

Meanwhile, Beregond had silently appeared in his now-accustomed spot by Boromir's side. Faramir's glanced quizzically at Boromir, who explained, "Gandalf feels I need a shadow to keep from injuring myself, Faramir, and Beregond here is the unfortunate who was saddled with the job." He shrugged, "Though I will admit that it has been useful to have a sparring partner on hand when I need one."

Beregond bowed, "It is an honor to meet you, my Lord Faramir."

Faramir's eyebrows rose and he grinned at Beregond, "Keeping my brother out of trouble must be a singularly thankless task, Beregond, you have all my sympathy."

"It is not without its benefits, my lord, my swordsmanship is bound to improve—eventually," Beregond remarked dryly, and Faramir laughed.

The halfling and the three men began making their way to the sixth level, Faramir riding with the others walking alongside.

Boromir glanced up at his brother and shook his head in exasperation, "That cut, Faramir, you should know better! We do have these things called 'helmets' now, if you recall, that are quite effective for protection against blows to the head."

"Do tell, Boromir," Faramir answered, his eyes glinting in amusement. "I also recall we have things called 'shields', which are quite effective for protection against being shot full of arrows."

Boromir stared at him sourly, and beside him, Pippin chortled and said, "I think he's got you there, Boromir!"

Boromir muttered, "Too clever by half," under his breath and stalked ahead while Pippin and Faramir chuckled.

"Pippin, Gandalf said you were soon to be on duty," Faramir inquired politely, "what duty is that?"

"I'm a Guard of the Citadel now!" Pippin explained, puffing out his chest proudly. Boromir glanced back at him with a fond smile. "I'll soon have to go to our room to put on my livery. Oh!" he exclaimed, "Boromir said I could wear the uniform made for you as a boy. I hope you don't mind," he added anxiously.

Faramir grinned and exclaimed, "Mind? On the contrary, I'm honored to have you use it—may you wear it in good health. Besides," he added regretfully, "it's good to know it's being used; I only wore it a few times before I outgrew it."

"Well, no worry about that with me," Pippin said with a laugh, "I'm not likely to grow more, except sideways."

They walked along in easy silence for a while, until the Houses of Healing came into sight. Faramir cast a sidelong glance at his brother; Boromir had the same wistful smile on his face for some time and Faramir had a good guess what he was thinking about.

"So Boromir," he asked casually, "how is Morloth?"

Boromir, startled out of his thoughts, flushed and cleared his throat. He repeated, "Morloth?" Recalling that an answer was expected of him he finally said, "Yes, well, she's fine, very fine. You'll see for yourself soon enough," he added curtly.

Faramir raised an eloquent eyebrow in Pippin's direction and the halfling stifled a laugh before nodding sagely in agreement, "I've met Morloth several times now and I agree completely with your brother, Faramir. Morloth is indeed very fine."

Boromir glared suspiciously in Pippin's direction, wondering whether to take his statement at face value. But Pippin's face was the picture of innocence.


	13. Chapter 13

_Wow, lots of great reviews for the last chapter—I guess you were all happy to see Faramir again! Thanks so much, especially to the new reviewers and those I couldn't answer by PM. _

_Sorry about being a little late in posting this, you'd think there would be MORE time for this stuff over the holidays, but it never seems to work that way._

_This chapter is a bit long, but I think you'll understand why I ended it where I did. _:-)

* * *

Chapter 13

Morloth had just finished bandaging a leg wound when a familiar voice hailed her. "My lady, do you have time to treat another injured soldier?" She turned to see a grinning Boromir, who was using one arm to support his limping brother, with Pippin trailing behind.

"For the gallant Captain Faramir, of course," she said, giving him an answering smile.

A quick assessment of Faramir's condition told her that the leg injury was unlikely to be serious; there was no obvious wound and he was able to put some weight on it, which would not have been the case if it were broken. He did, however, have an ugly wound on his forehead that had bled profusely and needed to be stitched.

She directed them to an examination table where Faramir could sit comfortably. When Boromir neared her, he said quietly, "We had Pippin look in the other rooms for you but did not go in ourselves; we did not want to seem like we were favoring you over the other healers."

Faramir rolled his eyes and said dryly, "We wouldn't want to do that, now would we?"

"Quiet, you," Boromir growled.

Morloth stifled a laugh and said, "Make yourself comfortable, Captain, I'll be right with you." She found an aide and directed him to help Faramir take off his breeches, then went to collect the supplies she'd need. However, since the storeroom was behind where Faramir was seated, he and Boromir did not see her return.

Faramir's breeches had been removed and he was covered with a cloth drape to preserve his modesty, though it was evidently not enough to maintain his dignity. "Boromir, I've never had a lady healer before," Faramir whispered, "I have every confidence in Morloth's skills but it's just damned awkward!"

Pippin snickered and Boromir said dismissively, "Don't be a baby, Faramir, she was my only healer for more than a week."

Faramir snorted, "You were almost dead, Boromir, so of course it didn't bother you! Though knowing you, you probably wouldn't have had the decency to be embarrassed in any case," he added glumly.

Morloth cleared her throat and all three turned, looking variously guilty and self-conscious, Faramir the most of all.

"Captain, it's not unusual for men to be uncomfortable with me as a healer, especially the first time." She quirked a smile, "I will try to make it as easy for you as possible."

Faramir reddened and stammered out an apology, "Morloth, you know that it is no reflection on your abilities…"

She held up a hand to stop him. "I do understand, Captain, and no offense was taken. I will find another healer to tend you if you wish. However," Morloth said, meeting his eyes, "I would appreciate it very much if you could set an example for your men. I would not want any to think they should refuse treatment from me, especially in an emergency."

Boromir uttered a triumphant "Ha!" and clapped his brother on the shoulder.

Faramir shook his head in chagrin, "You shame me, Morloth; of course I will happy for you to treat my injuries."

"I…I did not mean to do so," Morloth replied, reddening.

He smiled ruefully, "I know, and that makes it worse." Faramir sighed, "Let's get this done."

Morloth pulled up the drape far enough to find an ugly purple bruise the size of a spread hand on his thigh just above the knee.

As she began her examination, Pippin sidled closer to see, remarking, "Oh, that looks like it hurt."

Faramir snorted, "It did, and does. You should have seen the great ugly brute of an orc that got me with his spear butt."

"Still, better than the pointy end," Boromir remarked dryly.

"No doubt about that," Faramir agreed, "and the orc saw the pointy end of my sword right after, I'm happy to say."

"Well," Morloth began, "fortunately it's just a bruise, though a nasty one. Painful, but not dangerous."

"See?" Faramir exclaimed, "As I told you, Boromir. And I'm sure there's nothing you can do for it."

"Well, that's not quite true," Morloth responded, "I can wrap it with an herb dressing that will reduce the swelling and aid in healing. But you should try to rest that leg for the next day or two—if you can," she added doubtfully.

She quickly wrapped his leg and then turned her attention to the cut on his forehead, carefully cleaning it and dabbing it with a salve to reduce the pain when she stitched it. Boromir and Pippin lingered to chat with Faramir while she worked, but as soon as she produced a needle in preparation for closing the wound, they decided a tour of the ward was in order.

She glanced at the tall Man and tiny Hobbit and smiled, they were laughing with some soldiers, Pippin perched comfortably on one man's bed. "Those two," she said fondly, "when they're together you'd think they were both young boys with not a care in the world."

"Pippin lightens his heart," Faramir said simply, meeting her eyes, "and so do you."

Morloth blushed and nodded her thanks. She had finished stitching his cut so she began gathering her supplies. When she looked up at Faramir he was eying her speculatively.

"So Morloth," he began, "how are you?"

"Me?" she squeaked in surprise, "I…I'm well." Suddenly convinced that Faramir had somehow discerned what she and Boromir had been doing the night before she fumbled and dropped the jar of salve. "I'm fine. Very fine," she amended, not wanting Faramir to think she was unhappy with the current state of affairs.

"Ah," Faramir remarked, his eyes twinkling, "you know, when I asked Boromir that question he gave me the same answer, in almost exactly the same way. Very interesting."

Morloth felt herself redden again but before she could respond, Faramir leaned close and said, "Please know that I'm very happy for both of you."

"Thank you," she said quietly, her heart full.

At that moment, Mithrandir swept into the room and strode over to join them. When he spotted Pippin he said in an exasperated tone, "Pippin, you should not be here, fool of a Took! You are on duty very soon—get yourself gone!"

"Ai!" Pippin cried, "You're right, Gandalf, I'll have to run if I'm going to change into my uniform and make it to my station on time. Goodbye, Boromir, Faramir. Goodbye, Morloth," he said with a courteous—but rapid—bow in her direction. With that, he set out at a trot toward his quarters with Gandalf.

"So Faramir," Gandalf said after rolling his eyes at Pippin's retreating back, "since it appears that your hurts have been well tended, perhaps you could spare some time to speak to me about a certain chance meeting of yours some days ago. To say that I was concerned by what Boromir told me would be an understatement."

"Of course, Mithrandir," Faramir replied, and hopped down from the table with Morloth's assistance. She then absented herself so they could help him back into his breeches. When she returned she found Faramir and Mithrandir gone and Boromir sitting morosely on the table that Faramir had vacated.

"You didn't go with them?" she asked in surprise.

Boromir gave her a wan smile, "I wouldn't leave without saying goodbye to you. Besides, there was no point—I could add nothing to the conversation."

His earlier buoyant mood, his happiness at Faramir's return, his pleasure in her company—all had been washed away in the last few minutes. Whatever had been burdening his heart had returned.

"Boromir, what is it?" she asked gently, "Did something happen?'

"No," he said brusquely, "nothing of that sort. Just a reminder of something I'd rather not remember. A reminder of my failings," he added bitterly.

Morloth met his eyes, "I have known from the start that something was weighing on you; Aragorn even mentioned the possibility—that you might be troubled by something you had done." From his startled look it was clear that her revelation about Aragorn was unexpected. She laid a hand lightly on his arm for a moment, all she felt she could chance in public. "You…you could tell me about it if you wish," she said hesitantly, "it might help and you know I will not judge you harshly."

"You should," Boromir said shortly. When he met her eyes, his face was haunted, "Sometimes I think I will burst if I'd don't speak about it—this _secret_. Other times I wish no one knew so I could pretend it had never happened. I…I think I would like to tell you of it, Morloth. The others, Gandalf, Pippin, even Faramir are…too close. It hurts too much to speak of it with them.

"Can you leave?" he asked abruptly, "For a while, at least?"

"I believe so," she replied, "I have been here since daybreak. But I will need to tell the Warden I am leaving."

"Good, my lady," he clasped her hand briefly and smiled, a little more warmly this time. "Meet me outside."

-ooo-

As soon as they were alone in his room together, Boromir said, "Please sit, Morloth, it is a long tale and I need you near me, if you've no objection."

"Of course not, Boromir!" Morloth assured him. She sat on the couch they had used the night before and he sat next to her, taking her hand in his.

"First," he said without preamble, "you must know that this is not just my secret; there are reasons that Gandalf and Faramir could not speak of this in public other than a wish to conceal my dishonor. You will understand why soon enough." Boromir took a deep breath and continued, "When I said it was a long tale, I was not exaggerating. The beginning of it goes back to the end of the last age, when Sauron was defeated by the Last Alliance."

"It does?" Morloth asked in astonishment. She had some guesses concerning the nature of Boromir's secret, but she had expected nothing of this sort.

He went on, "Our legends tell us that Sauron was defeated when Isildur cut the enemy's great Ring of Power from his hand. I'm sure you've heard the tale."

"Of course," Morloth murmured. "Though I've also heard it said by some scholars that the Ring of Power never truly existed; that its presence in the tale merely served a representation of Sauron's power."

Boromir snorted derisively, "Those 'scholars' have never spoken to Lord Elrond of Rivendell then, he was there when it happened. No, the Ring existed. Exists," he corrected absently.

Morloth's eyes widened at this, but she did not interrupt.

"Not told in our legends is what happened afterward; that Isildur, instead of destroying the Ring, took it for his own. Gandalf believes that the Ring also played a role in Isildur's death, which I can readily believe," he added cryptically. "In any case after Isildur perished the Ring was lost for hundreds of years. You need not know all the details, but by a series of mischances it eventually came into the possession of a hobbit named Bilbo Baggins, the uncle of one of the company, Frodo Baggins."

She gave an involuntary gasp; when Boromir looked at her questioningly, she explained, "I…suspected that whatever was burdening you had something to do with Frodo. You were reluctant to speak of him and at times when you were fevered you would call his name, begging him to forgive you."

"You will see why," Boromir remarked grimly. "After many years Bilbo passed the Ring on to Frodo, not understanding what it was or its importance. However, Gandalf suspected that it was more than it seemed, and finally deduced that it could be none other than the One Ring, Sauron's mighty Ring of Power. But Gandalf also learned that Sauron was searching for his Ring, and had sent his Ringwraiths to seek it. Gandalf advised Frodo to flee his home and travel to Rivendell, which he did with the other three hobbits. They barely reached Rivendell alive; the Nine hunted them relentlessly and Frodo was wounded near to death by the Witch-King himself."

"Pippin too?" Morloth asked, scarcely able to believe what Boromir was telling her. At Boromir's nod, she shook her head, "Hunted by Ringwraiths and captured by orcs! He shows no sign of having endured such terrors."

"All the hobbits are like that—much tougher than their size and demeanor would lead you to believe."

"What happened next, Boromir?" Morloth asked anxiously.

Boromir sighed and was silent for a moment, "Here, I come into the story; I arrived in Rivendell shortly after the hobbits. I went in part because of a dream that came to me once and to Faramir several times; the dream spoke of doom and mentioned Imladris—another name for Rivendell—the sword that was broken, and most importantly…Isildur's Bane—the Ring."

The tale now came ever more slowly and reluctantly from Boromir, it was clear they were nearing the heart of what troubled him. "There was another reason as well; my father had somehow learned or guessed that the Ring was 'Isildur's Bane', and he insisted that I should go and bring the Ring…here," he said woodenly.

Morloth stared at him in horror, "Why would he ask such a thing? Why would he _want_ such a thing? Surely this Ring is evil—how could it not be, given its maker?"

Boromir shook his head in surprise, "Your instincts do you credit, Morloth. Simply put, he wanted it because the Ring is powerful, and he felt that it would be a potent tool for Gondor—for him—either because we could keep it from Sauron or use it in Gondor's defense. My father was certain that a member of the noble House of Húrin would never succumb to the Ring's evil," he added bitterly. "I did not want to go, and Faramir volunteered to go in my stead—would that he had done so—but my father insisted that it must be me.

"In Rivendell, they convened a great council to decide what should be done with the Ring, which I attended. I argued as my father wished me to—that the Ring should come to Gondor so it could help in our struggle against the Enemy. But Gandalf and others were of different mind; adamant that it could not be hidden or used without corrupting whoever possessed it. They maintained that the only choice was to destroy it to keep it out of Sauron's grasp, and the only place it _could_ be destroyed was where it was made, in Mount Doom."

Morloth gasped in dismay, "In Mordor? It can only be destroyed in _Mordor_?"

He nodded. "At the time I thought it was pure folly to attempt it, and it still seems like a desperate chance. But their view prevailed, and that was the task we were set, to help Frodo carry this thing all the long leagues to Mordor and cast it in the fires of Mount Doom. Despite my misgivings, I pledged myself to that cause.

"We set out, and at first the journey went well. I came to know and respect all my companions, though Merry and Pippin seemed to especially enjoy my company and sought me out for weapons practice and whatever other nonsense they would get up to. And Aragorn," Boromir shook his head ruefully, "I was not at all courteous to him when I learned he had a claim to the throne of Gondor, but he was never anything but friendly and respectful to me. Eventually I recognized his true worth.

"As I mentioned, I was unsure about the wisdom of our task from the first, but as we neared Minas Tirith—and Mordor—my doubts began to grow as did my worries about Gondor's fate. Images would flash through my mind; sometimes in dreams, sometimes in waking hours, of Minas Tirith in flames and its people enslaved. Or I would find myself pondering all the good I could do if I had the power of the Ring at my command. Some of that was natural, no doubt; after all, I reason for concern. At the time I did not suspect anything was amiss until it was too late, but now looking back I can see that at least some of those thoughts were placed there by the Ring itself—it was speaking to me."

Her eyes widened, "It _spoke_ to you?" she asked in disbelief. "How can that be?"

"Gandalf explained that a portion of Sauron's will resides in it, and in some ways it behaves like a living thing. It can touch the minds and hearts of those around it…influence them so their actions serve its will—and its master's will.

"I am not trying to absolve myself of responsibility for what I did, Morloth! They were still my actions and my decisions, and I must bear the shame of that. But I can see now that although I was convinced at the time I was acting to serve Gondor and please my father, the Ring pushed me toward that path that would best serve its own ends."

Boromir stopped speaking and his shoulders heaved. Morloth silently took his hands in hers and squeezed them comfortingly.

"We had stopped near Amon Hen, and were planning to cross the river to the eastern bank in the morning. I had been growing more determined by the day that the Ring should go to Gondor and not Mordor, and now the decision point had come, whether to cross the Anduin for Mordor, or head south to Minas Tirith. I resolved to speak to Frodo to convince him of the wisdom of the southern route; since I knew what he chose would influence the others."

Boromir got up and began pacing restlessly, his face grim. He took a deep breath and scrubbed a hand over his face before continuing. "I was gathering firewood for the camp when I came upon Frodo alone seeking solitude in the woods…" He stopped abruptly, "No! I will not lie to myself or to you, Morloth. I saw him leave the camp alone and I followed, the firewood was a convenient excuse.

"I could see his heart was heavy—no wonder with the weight he bore—so I approached him and tried to persuade him to lighten his burden by taking the Ring to Gondor rather than Mordor. Or if he preferred, he could simply give me the Ring," Boromir added sardonically. "His reply was courteous but adamant; Mordor it must be."

Boromir's agitation growing, he sat down next to Morloth and took her hands in his. "I will spare you the rest of my arguments, they are unimportant. When I look back at that time it is like picturing something in my imagination; I feel no connection to it myself other than the knowledge that I indeed did those things." He was breathing heavily now, with tears standing in his eyes. Morloth, her own heart aching, reached up to gently touch his face. Boromir finally spoke again, stiffly, "When he refused to give me the Ring or bring it to Gondor, I became enraged and I…I tried to take it from him by force."

"Oh, Boromir," Morloth whispered, barely able to keep the tears back herself.

"Morloth, I am twice his size and had vowed to aid him; I burn with shame when I recall it! Fortunately for us all one of the Ring's powers is to render invisible anyone who wears it, so Frodo was able to elude me and get away. I shudder to think what would have happened had he not, if I had brought this evil thing here, to Gondor. I chased him and in my fury slipped; when I got up it was if a fog had been lifted from my mind and full import of what I had done came crashing down on me. That was one of the things that finally convinced me that the Ring had touched my mind, the rage left me so suddenly it felt like no natural thing.

"Shortly afterward the Uruk-hai attacked, and I was fully occupied with protecting Merry and Pippin from them—for all the good it did. Aragorn told me later than Frodo and Sam were able to slip away in the confusion and crossed the river to continue their journey to Mordor. It awes me to think how much courage it must have taken for two small hobbits to face such a task alone and unaided."

Boromir put his head in his hands before speaking again, "Morloth, what should I do? How can I atone for this thing I have done?"

"Boromir, it seems that your friends feel that you have already atoned," Morloth said, laying a hand briefly on his still-bandaged chest, "Aragorn made a special point of telling me that he did not think less of you because of it. That is certainly true of Pippin as well. As for your defense of the hobbits being pointless because they were captured anyway…" She made an indignant noise in her throat, "Well, that's nonsense, and you know it. You thought they were going to be killed; that they were not does not make your actions any less valiant." Morloth took his hand in hers, "Are you worried that Frodo will not forgive you?"

Boromir sighed and met her eyes, "No, Faramir told me that Frodo was pleased I had survived and understood that the Ring had affected me. He is much more forgiving than I had any right to expect."

"Well then, the problem seems to be determining when _you_ believe you have sufficiently atoned for it. Only you can decide that, though I suspect that time is in part the answer. As for the rest, I have found that when a great grief or other life-altering event comes upon someone, the choices are surprisingly simple; you can give up, or go on.

"I loved my father dearly," Morloth paused, her voice breaking for a moment, "and it took some time for me to forgive him for succumbing to his grief when my mother died. If he had not, he might well have lived to see Cirlan grow to manhood. But when Bregor died, I finally understood; that at such times despair can be very…tempting. In the end, Cirlan and my work were enough reason for me to go on despite my grief. However, you, Boromir, seem to have already made your choice."

"What do you mean, Morloth?" Boromir asked, bewildered.

"You like to say that I saved your life, and although I appreciate your trust in me, it is not simply modesty that motivates me to disagree. Boromir, all my training and experience tells me that _you should have died_. I have never seen or heard tell of anyone surviving such terrible wounds to the chest."

Looking a little pale, Boromir murmured, "Perhaps Aragorn…"

Morloth shrugged, "Having a skilled healer on hand to treat you immediately undoubtedly helped, and my care afterward most likely did also, but in my judgment it should not—would not—have been enough to save you. Whether it was Eru's blessing or your own stubbornness, something enabled you to survive when no other man likely would have. And now, Boromir," she said with a note of challenge in her voice, "it is up to you to decide how to use this gift you have been given." She gave him a wry smile, "Since you have forfeited the option of giving up."

Boromir laughed shakily, "Morloth, when I said I like that you challenge me, I didn't expect it to be _this_ challenging!" He sobered, and shook his head, "You're right, Morloth, giving up…no, I could not do that. But how do I go on…what do I do, when I feel so tainted by what I have done?"

"I think you can answer that yourself, Boromir. Why did you come back? What do you still have to do here that was worth fighting your way back from death?" Morloth asked her eyes intent on his face.

His answer was immediate, "Gondor needs me. Our people, my father, Faramir—they all need me. How could I abandon them at a time like this?"

Morloth nodded, "Then you have your answer. The taint you feel from that one dishonorable act should ease in time, as any grief does. In the meantime, do what you can, and the best you can."

Boromir snorted, "It's that simple?"

"It's simple because it's the only answer. What other could there be?"

He laughed and leaned back on the couch, pulling her back against him, "If Eru's blessing kept me alive, he must have also sent you to ease my heart, Morloth."

Morloth raised an eyebrow and smiled at Boromir, "Your brother says that both Pippin and I lighten your heart."

"So you do," Boromir agreed. He bent close, close enough that his beard tickled her face, "Though for very different reasons, dear lady."

They sat together for some little while, simply enjoying each other's company. Then with no warning they heard the chamber door open. Startled, Boromir and Morloth looked up in time to see Lord Denethor enter the room, flanked by two guards in Tower livery. Behind them were Duinor and Beregond, their faces set and white with dismay.

Denethor glared at the couple and said contemptuously, "So now I see why my Captain-General has not seen fit to apprise me of the state of our defenses. Evidently he has _better_ things to do."


	14. Chapter 14

_A shorter chapter this time, but...eventful. Hope you all enjoy it!_

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Chapter 14

Morloth gave a gasp of alarm and stood. Boromir tried to do the same but had stiffened after sitting for so long and struggled until Morloth assisted him. If he felt discomfited because of it in front of his father, he did not reveal it; he strode up to face the Lord Steward, his face set and angry. When Morloth came to stand next to him, he took her hand.

Despite his infirmity, Boromir stood tall when confronting his father, seemingly not at all self-conscious at being found with Morloth. He met Denethor's eyes coolly, "Uncle Imrahil informed you that Cair Andros had fallen and that we were withdrawing from Osgiliath. If you desired further information on the state of our defenses, you could have asked me to attend you. You know that."

"We have important matters to discuss, yet here I find you…" Denethor began stridently.

"We can discuss anything you wish, including your singular _lack_ of courtesy," Boromir interrupted acidly, "but these others need not be here." He gestured at the men behind Denethor.

Denethor waved his hand and said dismissively, "Wait outside."

As they filed out, Duinor caught Boromir's eyes and said pleadingly, "My lord…"

Boromir smiled reassuringly in return, "Do not concern yourself, Duinor, I know you are not to blame for this."

Once the men were gone, Denethor's eyes flicked to Morloth, his face set in a sneer, "You. Go."

Despite the rudeness of this dismissal Morloth was happy for an excuse to leave, but Boromir's hand tightened on hers.

"No," Boromir responded implacably. "You will not treat her that way. Morloth is a free woman of Gondor and worthy of your respect. She is no man's servant, and most assuredly not yours," he added, his eyes glittering with anger.

"No man's servant!" Denethor mocked, "She might as well be a servant. A healer!" he snorted contemptuously, "I'm sure you know what kind of _services_ she performs for the men in her care."

Boromir growled in rage, but before he could respond Morloth grasped his arm and said in a low voice, "Boromir, no! It's not worth it."

Meanwhile, the Lord Steward continued, "I will not have my son, my _heir_, entangled with such a woman!"

Somehow Boromir managed to reign in his fury. His eyes narrowed, "I am a man grown these many years, Father. You may be able to prevent me from marrying whom I wish, but you are sadly mistaken if you think I will allow you to govern my heart."

Denethor's voice rose, "And you are sadly mistaken if you think I will acknowledge any bastard of hers, let alone accept one as my heir!"

Morloth had known that there might be a confrontation if Denethor learned of their relationship, but this was far worse than anything she had imagined. She clung to Boromir as if she were drowning and prayed for it to be over quickly.

Boromir shook his head in bafflement, "By what right do you treat her with such disdain? Her father was a guard of the Citadel, her husband died valiantly in Ithilien, and she has selflessly given her own labor and skills to the aid of Gondor—she has no cause for shame! Has your overweening pride in our lineage unhinged your mind?"

"If you think so highly of her," Denethor sneered, "give her to Faramir to marry. I care not who whelps his brats."

Morloth could take it no longer. Eyes filling with tears, she tore herself away from Boromir's grip and stumbled toward the door. Behind her, she heard Boromir answer, cold fury in his voice, "You go too far, old man. Now look what you have done!"

She crossed the outer chamber and continued into the corridor outside, where Beregond and Denethor's guards were waiting. Seeking only a place where she could cry in privacy, she barely heard Beregond exclaim, "Morloth, wait!" She rushed on in the direction she dimly remembered was the way back to her room. Morloth turned a corner and ran full-force into someone coming from the other direction.

After recovering from the surprise of the collision, arms grasped her and a well-known voice demanded, "Morloth, what is it? What is the shouting about?"

Morloth realized she could hear faintly the sound of Boromir and his father's raised voices, though thankfully not what they were saying. When she looked up found that it was Faramir holding her, his face drawn in confusion and concern.

Before she found the words to explain Beregond rounded the corner and stopped, blowing out his breath in relief, "Oh, it's you, sir, thank Eru!"

"What is happening, Beregond? Why is Morloth so distraught?"

Beregond met Faramir's eyes, his face bleak, before responding in a low voice, "It is your father, my lord. Your brother was alone with Morloth when he came, determined to see Lord Boromir immediately. I tried to dissuade him, and your brother's manservant tried, asked him to wait or at least knock before entering, but he refused. What could we do, my lord?" Beregond asked pleadingly, "I would have had to stop him by force, and I…I could not…"

"No, of course not, Beregond," Faramir said reassuringly, "I'm sure Boromir will not blame you for this." His voice hardened, "It's an old tactic of my father's; he likes to catch people wrong-footed so they are at a disadvantage."

Morloth finally found her voice. "We weren't even doing anything!" she protested in an aggrieved tone.

A small smile played over Beregond's features, "Aye, that's true my lord, nothing that would shame either of them. But it was clear how matters were between them, if you know what I mean. When he saw them together the Lord Steward all but accused your brother of neglecting his duties—and I was with him all day, I know for certain that's nonsense!" he added hotly. "We were dismissed then, but from what I could hear it was worse from there—especially for Morloth. She came running out crying a few moments ago."

"I can only imagine how it was for her," Faramir said, shaking his head. He met Beregond's eyes and held them, "Understand that none of this is to be fodder for common gossip, Beregond."

The guardsman looked affronted, "Of course not, my lord! Morloth is a friend as well as Lord Boromir's lady."

Faramir glanced at Morloth and smiled, "I suppose she is at that." He addressed her, "Morloth, my room is just down the hall, would you like to wait for Boromir there?"

She drew a deep breath to calm herself before answering, "Yes, thank you Captain. I feel better, but I'm still a little shaken."

"Good." He turned to Beregond, "You'd better get back. When you see my brother, tell him that Morloth is with me. He'll be worried about her."

Beregond nodded and trotted off back toward Boromir's chambers. Faramir guided Morloth a short way down the corridor and let her into his rooms. Like Boromir's there was a well-appointed outer chamber as well as a bedchamber, though Faramir's rooms were noticeably smaller than his brother's. Faramir found her a seat in the outer chamber and sat across from her.

He smiled wryly at her, "Since it seems you are to be Boromir's lady, you should call me Faramir when we are alone or among friends."

She gave him a tentative smile in return, "Thank you, Faramir. But…but I wonder if I _should_ be your brother's lady," she said, the words coming out in a rush, "if it's going to cause so much trouble between Boromir and your father."

He snorted, "I imagine Boromir will have something to say about that, if he hasn't already." Faramir raised an inquiring eyebrow at her, "Accepted what Father said about you meekly, did he? No disagreement?"

Despite herself, Morloth stifled a laugh, 'meek' was certainly not a word she'd use to describe Boromir's attitude toward his father during their argument, "No, I wouldn't say that."

"I thought not. Boromir is too good a soldier not to avoid an unnecessary fight if he can, but he will not back down when one comes to him." Faramir's eyes met hers, "Especially if it's something he feels is important."

"But it was so horrible, Faramir!" Morloth cried, fighting back tears once again. "The things your father said; what they said to each other… It was bad enough for them to be fighting like that, but the fact that they were fighting about _me_ made it all the worse. I hate that they are at odds over me!"

"I understand that all too well," Faramir responded ruefully. "It's a terrible, helpless feeling to listen to them rail at each other when you know you are the cause and there is nothing you can do to stop them." He paused a moment before continuing, "But consider this Morloth, Boromir and my father have fought like this on occasion for as long as I can remember; sometimes about me, sometimes about other matters. Don't bother telling my brother to let it go or that it's not worth fighting over. Believe me, I've tried, he won't listen. However, I can tell you with complete certainty that Boromir would much rather be at odds with Father than with you."

"Oh!" Morloth exclaimed softly, "If you're sure…"

"I am," he responded firmly, his eyes glinting with amusement, "And I think I speak for all of Gondor's people when I say that I would prefer that you _not_ break our Captain-General's heart on the eve of battle."

This surprised a genuine laugh from Morloth. She blushed and told him, "I hadn't thought of it that way before."

There was a brisk knock on the door and it opened almost immediately, revealing Boromir, who said, "Fara, Beregond told me that Morloth…" He spotted her and she barely had time to stand before he was across the room, taking her into his arms.

To her chagrin, the sight of him and the feeling of his arms around her opened the floodgates again and she began crying against his chest. He smoothed her hair and spoke soothingly to her while she wept, "I'm so sorry, Morloth. I never meant for him to hurt you like that, dear lady."

Without turning, Boromir addressed his brother, "Faramir, Beregond is in the corridor. Could you ask him in, please?"

"Of course, brother," Faramir replied, and Morloth heard the door close softly behind him.

In the meantime, Morloth managed to compose herself somewhat, saying, "I'm sorry, Boromir, I know I'm being foolish with all this crying."

"Not at all, Morloth. My father can be a right bastard and if I weren't so used to it, I'd probably cry too," he assured her.

"Boromir," she admonished, trying not to laugh, "you can't call him that! He's your father and the Lord Steward besides."

He snorted in amusement, "I can assure you that there's absolutely no reason why the Lord Steward can't be a right bastard. It's practically a job requirement."

Now she did laugh, "Will you be one when you're Lord Steward?"

"Probably," he answered matter-of-factly. He took her chin in his hand and caressed her cheek. "I'll try never to be one with you," he said as he bent to kiss her.

Even more than the kiss, her heart thrilled to the implication that she would be part of his life for a long time to come. She pulled away slightly and asked, "Isn't Faramir taking an awfully long time to bring Beregond in from the hall?"

Boromir grinned, "My little brother is a clever one—he knows that we need some time alone together after what has happened. I'm sure he's cooling his heels chatting to Beregond in the corridor; we have a little time yet."

After a moment Morloth said hesitantly, "Boromir, since your father objects so strongly to me, before you came in I asked Faramir if it might be better for you if I were to stop seeing you." She put up a hand to forestall his outraged sputtering and he subsided, "Faramir said 'no', that he was certain you would not want that, and that it would…break your heart if I did."

"I knew there was a reason I keep him around," Boromir chuckled.

Morloth's own heart was beating fast, "I…I suppose what I'm asking is, would it?" She forced herself to meet his eyes, "break your heart, I mean."

He stilled for a moment before responding, his eyes searching her face intently. "I understand that I am asking much of you, Morloth. We have known each other for only a short time; my bastard of a father has treated you abominably and I am not free to make the promises I'd wish to. If you were to walk away for any of those reasons, it would be very hard, but I would understand.

"But know this, dear lady; I am here if you want me, as long as you want me. I was reluctant to reveal my heart before, as I was burdened with the secret of the Ring, and I knew you had no conception of how cruel my father could be. Now there are no secrets between us and I can speak plainly. It may mean nothing in a few days time if the war goes badly, but I can no longer bear to keep silent. I…I love you, Morloth."

Morloth's voice broke, "How could that ever mean nothing, Boromir?" She threw her arms around his neck and he pulled her to his chest, kissing her eagerly.

After a few moments he murmured, "It grieves me I cannot offer you more, Morloth. And my original promise holds; I will not ask more of you that you are willing to give." He gave her a look of heart-stopping tenderness, "Until there comes a time when I have the right to ask it of you."

There was a loud knock on the door and they separated reluctantly. "Must be Faramir knocking," Boromir commented with a boyish grin, "he takes after our mother, you know. Very courteous."

"Come in!" Boromir called as Morloth struggled valiantly to suppress her giggles.

When Faramir and Beregond entered, Morloth was standing with Boromir holding his hand. She felt a little self-conscious about it, but knew there was no point in pretending with these two at least.

Boromir spoke first, "I want to thank you both for taking care of my lady for me when I could not; I am truly grateful." He crossed the room to clasp arms with Beregond and he pulled Faramir into a brief embrace. "As for father," Boromir shrugged, "all I can say is that he'll have to get used to the fact that we're together, as I'm not changing my mind."

Faramir glanced at Morloth with a small smile on his face, obviously glad to be proven correct.

"Beregond, there was something else I wanted to ask you about," Boromir said, finding a seat and gesturing to the others to join him. "This may sound strange, but who were those guards who were with father? I thought I knew all the Guards of the Citadel by sight, but I did not recognize them. If they were new recruits, I would understand, but they are not normally assigned to protect the Steward."

Beregond looked surprised for a moment, then sat back with a muttered oath, "My pardon, my lord, I had forgotten you that would not know."

"Not know what?" Boromir asked, perplexed.

The guardsman sighed and met Boromir eyes, his face grim, "That your father now has his own guards. They wear the black and silver, but are accountable to no one but the Lord Steward himself."

"What?" Boromir exclaimed, "When did this happen?" He turned to his brother, "Did you know about this, Faramir?"

"First I've heard of it, Boromir," his brother assured him.

Beregond shook his head, "Lord Faramir was in Ithilien when it came about." He took a deep breath, and said, "Let me start the tale from the beginning. A few weeks after you left on your journey, my lord, the Steward called Captain Meldir to him and told him that he had decided he needed his own troop of guards dedicated to his protection. The Captain was quite taken aback, such a thing had never been done before; normally all of the more senior guardsman would take turns with that duty as they did with all the others."

"Did my father say why he wanted to do this?" Boromir asked sharply.

"If he explained his reasoning, Meldir did not tell us, my lord. The Captain said he argued against it as strongly as he dared, but your father would not be swayed. And who could gainsay him? Neither of you were here, nor Prince Imrahil, and the Steward's Council showed no interest in getting involved. So your father picked the first few of this new troop from the current guardsmen."

They all started when there was a knock at the door, and Boromir swore under his breath. Faramir answered it; it was a courier who bowed, handed him the message, murmuring, "From your father, my lord," before taking his leave.

The brothers exchanged a concerned look and Morloth's heart sank. It seemed unlikely this would be good news after the earlier confrontation. Faramir scanned the message and said lightly, "Father wants to see me immediately. Well, we knew it was coming, so it's best to get it over with."

Boromir groaned and struggled to his feet, "And I've gone and made it worse for you, Fara! You know he'll be an even fouler mood than usual after our argument. I never meant to land you in my dung pile, but I should have thought… I'm such a fool!"

Faramir waved off his protests, "Boromir, you know you couldn't have done any differently, nor would I have wanted you to. Besides, how bad could it be?"

Boromir snorted in grim amusement, "You are an optimist, little brother." He sighed, "I'd offer to go with you, but somehow I doubt it would help." He gripped Faramir by the arms, "Come see me afterward, no matter what happens. Promise?"

Faramir nodded and smiled faintly, "Of course, Boromir. Stay as long as you like," he added before slipping out the door.

Boromir reseated himself next to Morloth, "Damn, I should have seen this coming!"

"What do you mean, Boromir?" she asked in confusion.

He squeezed her hand, "I'll explain later. But for now, I'd like to hear the rest of Beregond's story. You said father picked men who were current guardsmen. How could that be when I didn't recognize the two who were with him tonight?"

"The first few, my lord, were handpicked by the Steward himself from the more senior guardsmen." Beregond grimaced, "Not the ones I would have chosen for an especially important duty. None were bad of course; all the Guards of the Citadel are good, reliable men or they wouldn't wear the uniform. But the ones he chose, well, they were the type that always had their eye on the main chance, if you understand me. Do you remember Avor? He's one."

Boromir snorted, "Aye, I remember him, not one I would have chosen either."

"At first they reported to Captain Meldir like all the guardsmen, but gradually that changed. And new men started appearing, hired by the Lord Steward himself, that none of us had ever seen before. I'd say there are about a dozen of them all told. Now they don't even pretend to be in the same command as the rest of us."

Boromir sat back, looking uneasy, "What is Father thinking? Besides wanting all the guardsmen to have experience protecting the Steward, we've always rotated men into those positions to avoid this very thing!" He sighed, "Gandalf must be told. I do not know what this means, but I find it very disturbing that my father feels he needs his own troop that answers only to him."

He stood and stretched, "But that will wait until tomorrow. For tonight, we should give my brother back his room." He smiled at Morloth and held out his arm, "Care to accompany me, my lady?"


	15. Chapter 15

_Sorry it's taken me so long to update, I got temporarily distracted by some other projects._

_Lots of angsty brother stuff in this chapter, which shouldn't be too much of a surprise given where we are in the story. Please let me know what you think!_

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Chapter 15

The three walked to Boromir's room together, Boromir and Morloth entering while Beregond took his post outside. As they seated themselves, Morloth asked anxiously, "Boromir, what happened to Duinor? He looked so upset after your father walked in on us."

"I sent him home. He was distraught, having convinced himself that he was somehow to blame for Father's actions no matter how often I assured him otherwise. I'm not sure what he thought he could have done." Boromir stroked his chin thoughtfully, "Bashing Father over the head with a poker would have been impractical, despite how tempting it must have been."

Morloth choked back a laugh, "I do believe you say such things to shock me, Boromir."

His eyes crinkled with amusement, "And you giggle so prettily when I do, my lady."

Her face fell and she asked him, "Boromir, after Faramir was summoned by your father, what did you mean when you said you 'should have known'? Known what?"

"Another damnable ploy of my father's," he growled in response. "Whenever I fight with him it's always Faramir that's punished for it. He's given the dirtiest, most thankless jobs, told what a worthless son he is, and next time Father sees me, he'll pretend like there were never any harsh words between us. I swear, Morloth, it's diabolical! Father knows I'd much prefer that he take his anger out on me and have done with it, which is exactly why he targets Faramir instead. It is rarely so overt that I can protest Faramir's treatment, but I know why it's happening and Faramir does too." Boromir shook his head, his face bleak, "And Faramir just takes it; never says a word against me for landing him in it again, which makes it worse."

"Oh Boromir, that's horrible!" Morloth cried, "Why does your father hurt you both like that?"

He put his head in his hands, "I wish I knew, Morloth. He's been trying to drive a wedge between the two of us for as long as I can remember, and the fact that it doesn't work seems to spur him to even more cruelty." He pulled her close, "But Father wasn't always like this. He was a good and loving father to both of us, but when Mother died, he changed, and I don't know why. It's as if his love for Faramir died when my mother did, but…that makes no sense, Faramir is far more _like_ Mother than I am! I don't understand why he can't love Faramir, or at least just let me love him as a brother should."

Morloth reached up to gently touch Boromir's face, "But you do love your brother, and Faramir knows that. I'm sure that it's comfort to him knowing that you'll take his side no matter what your father does."

"I suppose," Boromir sighed, "I just wish I could do more."

They sat together for a while in silence, until there was a knock on the door. Boromir opened it to find Faramir, his face set.

Boromir paled and asked anxiously, "What did he say, Faramir? What is it?"

Faramir met his brother's eyes, "The Lord Steward feels that my withdrawal from Osgiliath was…premature. He commands me to gather a force to retake it—he thought a few hundred men should be sufficient. I'm to leave early tomorrow."

Boromir was so dismayed that he flinched and staggered, grabbing a nearby chair for support. "What?" he stammered, "But you were under orders to withdraw, _my_ orders! He knows that! How can he criticize you for following orders?"

"That didn't seem to matter," Faramir responded dryly.

"Retake it with a few hundred? There must be five thousand orcs on the west bank by now, and there will be more by morning. And that's if they haven't begun their march to the city, which could happen at any moment."

"Father did allow that we might have to harry them on the march and fall back to the Causeway Forts," Faramir added sardonically.

"Harry them?" Boromir asked contemptuously. "Perhaps if we had Théoden's thousands it might be worthwhile, but with a few hundred? You might as well try to stop a flood with a willow branch!" His face set, "No. It is madness. I will not allow him to throw lives away like this—throw _your_ life away like this! This order will not stand."

"How can you prevent it, Boromir?" Faramir asked gently, "He is your commander as well."

"It is _my_ responsibility to decide the disposition of our forces, and he has made a rash and dangerous decision without consulting me. If I cannot make him see reason and agree to withdraw this order, I…I will call the Steward's Council and put the question to them."

Faramir's eyes widened and he blew out a long breath. "Father won't like that."

Boromir grinned fiercely, "He'll hate it. He'll hate being seen at odds with me, his chosen general, and he'll hate having his commands scrutinized by the Council even more."

"The Steward's Council is aptly named, brother," Faramir replied skeptically, "they very rarely go against his will."

"I'm hoping they won't have to; he may agree to rescinding or changing the order rather than have it discussed openly. But if it comes to that," Boromir shrugged, "Uncle Imrahil will support us and he may sway some Council members if we cannot. At the very least it may delay your departure until a time that anyone can see that the order is pointless and wasteful."

"Boromir, I appreciate what you are trying to do, but Father seemed to have his mind made up. I would not pin any great hopes on him deciding to change it," Faramir responded cautiously.

"Then I will make him change it," Boromir said confidently. He held Faramir at arm's length and met his eyes, "Faramir, I have stood aside too long and watched Father bully you, demean you, and punish you for my failings. I will not let him needlessly risk your life and others just to prove that his will prevails."

"Brother, that is not true! You have always taken my part with Father," Faramir countered urgently. "You cannot blame yourself for his actions!"

"I could have done more, I'm certain of it. And this time, I will," Boromir said resolutely. "Let me do this for you, Faramir; this time I will not fail you."

"You have never failed me, you great idiot," Faramir said with fond smile. "But if you are determined…"

Boromir pulled him into a rough embrace, "I am." Releasing his brother, he continued, "I will go to Father soon, and then find you when I know better how the land lies. But first," he turned to Morloth, "we must see you safe for the night, my lady."

"Oh, Beregond can see me back to my room, Boromir. I will be fine."

He stared at her thoughtfully, "I would have thought so, but this news of Beregond's has me unsettled. Tomorrow, the Houses will be bustling with people and you should be safe, but tonight I am not so certain."

"Surely Father wouldn't try to harm her, Boromir!" Faramir protested.

Boromir growled softly to himself, "I hate to think so, Faramir, but still…" He stopped abruptly and crossed to the door. When he returned, Beregond was with him.

"We were just discussing, Beregond," Boromir explained, "how I might be occupied for some hours on business with the Steward, and that the part of the Houses where Morloth is staying is very isolated and lonely at night. Given what we discussed earlier…"

Understanding flared in Beregond's eyes, "Oh, aye, my lord." He turned to Morloth, "I've been remiss in telling you, Morloth, how pleased Aerin was on hearing you are in the city. She'd love a visit from you, and if we leave soon we'd be in time for the evening meal. We can even stop by your room and pick up a few things for the night."

"Beregond, I can't possibly show up at your door expecting to be put up for the night! I won't impose on Aerin like that."

Boromir put his arm around her waist, "Morloth, once the wounded start coming in tomorrow, you know you may not have another chance to see your friends for days." He reached up to gently touch her cheek, "Besides, it would ease my mind if you go, I'd know you were safe."

"I could send Bergil to ask Cirlan to join us for our meal, Morloth; then you'd have a chance to spend time with him as well," Beregond added.

She looked from Boromir to Beregond and back again, shaking her head in exasperation. "You two! It seems I have very little choice in the matter," she commented, a smile creeping across her face.

"That is certainly how I would read the situation," Faramir noted dryly.

"It's settled, then," Boromir said decisively. Beregond and Faramir adjourned to the hall to let Boromir and Morloth say their goodbyes in private, and when Beregond and Morloth had left, the two brothers met to say their own farewells.

"I don't know how long it will take, Faramir, it depends on if I can make Father see reason or whether I have to call the Council together for an emergency meeting," Boromir told his brother as they were parting by Boromir's door. "But I'll come to you as soon as I know anything."

"I'll be expecting you, then." Faramir shook his head, "I just wish I could be as optimistic as you are, Boromir."

Boromir grinned, clapped his brother on the shoulder and said heartily, "Have a little faith in your big brother, Faramir!" With a wave he was off, down the corridor leading toward the Steward's quarters.

Faramir sighed and headed back toward his own rooms, murmuring, "You are not the one who has earned my lack of faith, Boromir."

-ooo-

Gandalf and Pippin were up early the next day at what should have been daybreak, but Sauron's fume of darkness had covered the city sometime in the night, heralding the arrival of his armies. They made their way through the gloom, first seeking Boromir at his command post on the third level. Surprisingly, he was not there, but from that vantage point Gandalf noted men massing near the gate on the first level.

"It appears that a large force is readying for departure at the gate," Gandalf mused. "Odd, Boromir mentioned nothing of that sort as being planned for today when last we saw him. I wonder what the reason could be." He turned to the hobbit, "Come Pippin, either Boromir or Faramir should be there and can explain."

As they neared the gate, Gandalf stopped a soldier hurrying by on an errand, and asked, "Why are these men gathering? What is their purpose?"

The soldier met Gandalf's eyes, his face grim, "Captain Faramir leads a force to retake Osgiliath, Mithrandir. They are to leave momentarily."

Gandalf's hand tightened on the man's arm and he cried, "What? Who ordered this?"

The soldier looked alarmed and shrugged helplessly and Gandalf released him with a growl of frustration, "Boromir knows better than to spend men in this way! Why withdraw them only to send them back? We must find Faramir!"

"Gandalf," Pippin asked worriedly, "yesterday Boromir said that half of Sauron's armies are crossing at Osgiliath and readying themselves to march here. How can they hope to retake it?"

"They cannot," Gandalf snapped, "it is absurd to try! Boromir understands that; he ordered the withdrawal because he knew it would be impossible to hold them there. But to attempt to retake it from so massive a force is utter madness." He pointed, "Look! Faramir is at the head of the column. Now we will have some answers."

Pippin alone would have had trouble negotiating the mass of men around the gate, but they parted for the angry wizard as he made his way toward Faramir. Already mounted and ready to depart, Faramir turned when Gandalf called his name, "Faramir! Why are you doing this? Who ordered this folly?"

Faramir's face was set and expressionless; he replied, "The Lord Steward commands me to retake Osgiliath."

"The Lord Steward? What of Boromir? I cannot believe he would agree to this!"

A flash of pain crossed Faramir's face. "Boromir disagreed; last night he vowed that he would have the order withdrawn, but he did not—or chose not to."

Gandalf stared at Faramir in dismay, "Chose not to? I do not believe that and neither should you! What did he say?"

"I do not know; I have not spoken to him," Faramir said stiffly. "Perhaps he had something better to do, or found that he agreed with Father after all."

Gandalf reached up and laid his hand on Faramir's, his voice softening, "Boromir would not just abandon you to your fate, Faramir. You know that."

Faramir's shoulders slumped, when he met Gandalf's eyes his face was bleak. "When he left to see Father he promised to come speak to me before the night was over. He never came. I went to his room early this morning, but no one was there." He glanced away for a moment before speaking again, "What can I do, Mithrandir? The Lord Steward has given me a lawful order; I cannot ignore it simply because Boromir promised to have it rescinded. It has not been, and I am duty-bound to obey." He reined in his horse and called for the men to assemble before saying, "Excuse me, Mithrandir, we have tarried long enough."

Gandalf stood motionless, his face drawn and old. He said imploringly, "Faramir, what your father asks of you is madness—do not throw away your life so rashly!

When Faramir turned toward Gandalf again, he was smiling gently, "I go to defend the city I love and its people, Mithrandir. There are worse fates than to lay down my life in that cause."

Gandalf gazed at him sadly, "There are those that love you, Faramir; Boromir, and your father as well. He will remember it before the end."

He sat down heavily on a nearby bench. Pippin joined him and together they watched the men stream through the gate.

Finally Pippin spoke, "Gandalf, it doesn't sound like something Boromir would do; breaking his promise to Faramir like that."

"Indeed it does not, Pippin," Gandalf agreed. "And I refuse to believe he would have done so of his own accord. Something must have happened to prevent it, but what? And where _is_ Boromir?"


	16. Chapter 16

_Thanks for all the lovely reviews of the last chapter__—_it seems there are a lot of Boro/Fara fans out there! Unfortunately, we won't be seeing much of Faramir for the next few chapters, but I think Tolkien deserves at least some of the blame for that. :-)

_This chapter was a lot of fun to write—it has a little bit of everything; action, drama, angst, and even a little humor. Let me know what you think!_

* * *

Chapter 16

Gandalf rose suddenly and began walking quickly up the hill toward the second level. "Come, Pippin," he said brusquely, "we may not to able to help Faramir, but I doubt the other son of Denethor is beyond our aid."

Taken by surprise, Pippin had to run to catch up with Gandalf, "Where are we going to look for Boromir, Gandalf?"

Gandalf shook his head uncertainly, "Faramir said he was not in his room, but lacking better options it might be best to check there first in case he has returned."

Pippin sighed, "I don't understand what could have happened, Gandalf. He was fine yesterday when I left you all in the Houses…" Pippin's eyes widened, "Gandalf! What about…"

Gandalf glanced at Pippin, his eyes alight, "Of course! Morloth should know where he is, or can at least tell us when last she saw him." He nodded decisively, "We shall ask her first."

When they arrived at the Houses of Healing a short time later, they went straight to the room in which Morloth usually worked and found her with a patient. She looked up when they entered, but instead of her usual smile her face was strained and anxious.

She finished with her patient and hurried up to them, Gandalf addressing her first, "Morloth, we must speak to you, it is urgent."

Morloth gave a small gasp and said, "Of…of course, Gandalf, let me find someone to watch my patients." She left the room and returned with another healer; she quickly gave him some instructions before rejoining Gandalf and Pippin. They found a small seating area in a secluded corner of the House antechamber, and she turned to them, worry clouding her eyes, "What is it? Please tell me! Do you know what's wrong with Boromir?"

Gandalf squeezed her hand to reassure her and said, "Morloth, as far as I know nothing is wrong with Boromir, but we need to find him. Have you seen him today?"

"No, I haven't, Mithrandir, that's one reason I'm so concerned," Morloth replied. "After all that happened yesterday, I was certain he would come to see me or at least send a message—so I was hoping you could tell me what is amiss."

"All that happened? I have heard nothing of this!" Gandalf said in an exasperated voice. "Please, my lady, tell me everything, from the beginning."

"Of course, Mithrandir, I…I will do my best," she said, her brow furrowing anxiously. "After you and Faramir left us, Boromir and I went to his rooms; there was something he wanted to tell me. While we were there Lord Denethor…" her narrative stumbled to a halt and she reddened, giving Pippin a questioning look.

Realizing what the problem must be, he took her hand and gave her his most reassuring smile. "It's all right Morloth," he said in an undertone, "Gandalf knows Boromir very well too. He understands."

Her answering smile was a little unsteady, "Thank you, Pippin." She met Gandalf's eyes, "I suppose it doesn't matter so much now, but it's still difficult to talk about." Morloth took a deep breath and went on, "Boromir and I were sitting together in his room and Lord Denethor just burst in—with his guards!—without any notice. Duinor and Beregond say they both tried to stop him but he refused to let them knock or announce him."

She closed her eyes briefly and sighed before continuing, "It was obvious to Lord Denethor that Boromir and I were…together. He started to say things about me—very unkind things—" she added, her voice shaking slightly, "and that he wouldn't have Boromir 'entangled' with me. Boromir became very angry, and was defending me, but it only seemed to make matters worse." She looked up at Gandalf, tears standing in her eyes, "I would prefer not to repeat what Lord Denethor said, unless you feel it is necessary."

"No, Morloth, I will not ask that of you," Gandalf said gently, "there is no need for me to know what was said. I can certainly imagine it," he added in a hard voice.

Morloth finished her tale, relating how Faramir had been summoned to speak to his father and commanded to retake Osgiliath. Suddenly she started, looking up at Gandalf, her eyes wide, "What happened with Faramir, Mithrandir? Did he…"

Gandalf sighed heavily, "He is on his way to Osgiliath, Morloth."

She gasped and shook her head in dismay, "Oh no! This is terrible! Boromir was so certain that he could prevent it—he's going to be heartbroken when he learns of this. And Faramir in such danger—for no good reason, according to Boromir."

"Boromir is right, which is all the more reason why we must find him. I simply do not believe he would willingly allow Faramir to be sent into danger so needlessly. What prevented him from acting and where is he now?" Gandalf asked sharply.

Morloth looked at him eagerly, "I didn't quite finish telling my story, Mithrandir, Boromir might be in his room." Before Gandalf could question her further, she went on, "When I didn't hear from Boromir this morning, I was surprised and concerned, so I went to his room before coming here." She took a deep breath, "There was a guard there—a Tower guardsman—that I didn't recognize and he refused to let me enter to look for Boromir or even Duinor. He said that Boromir was ill and no one was allowed to see him. Of course, I explained that I was Boromir's healer and if he was ill then I certainly needed to see him immediately!" Morloth shook her head, "Then he became quite rude and offensive and again told me that no one was allowed to enter. I was going to search for Beregond later to see if he knew what had happened, but you found me first."

Gandalf sat back in his chair looking puzzled for a moment, then his face hardened and he said resolutely, "Come! They will not easily prevent me from entering. I mean to get to the bottom of this."

"Wait, Mithrandir," Morloth cried, "there is something else Boromir wanted you to know, and I think it may be important. Yesterday Beregond told us that after Boromir left for Rivendell his father requested his own guardsman—men that would be specifically assigned to guard him with no other duties. It was done over Captain Meldir's protests, and now the Lord Steward has a dozen men that report directly to him, some of whom were hired by the Steward himself and are unknown to the other Tower Guards."

"Oh, I don't like the sound of that at all," Gandalf muttered. He shook his head, "What possessed Denethor to do such a thing?" He glanced up after a moment, saying, "Thank you, Morloth, that may indeed be important."

He started toward the door with Pippin trailing behind. "Just a moment," Morloth called, "let me get my bag."

"Oh, you're coming with us, Morloth?" Gandalf asked, one eyebrow raised inquiringly.

She snorted, "Of course I am, Mithrandir. Do you think I'd stay behind when Boromir might be hurt or ill? Don't you dare try to talk me out of it!"

A smile crossed Gandalf's face and was gone; he said solemnly, "I wouldn't dream of it, my lady."

-ooo-

Pippin peeked cautiously around the corner to get a better view of Boromir's door. "One guard in Tower livery," he reported in a whisper to Gandalf and Morloth who were standing behind him. "I don't recognize him, but then I don't know too many guardsmen yet. It's definitely not Beregond."

"Hmm," Gandalf pondered, "we need a way to get past him."

"Couldn't you…" Pippin mimed bashing someone on the head.

"I _could_," Gandalf replied, giving Pippin an exasperated look, "but there are times when guile is more desirable than brute force."

"May I look?" Morloth asked. "I'll be careful." Gandalf nodded and she glanced quickly around the corner. "He looks familiar to me; he may be one of the men the Lord Steward selected from the other guardsmen. But it's not the person who was posted there earlier."

"Interesting," Gandalf said, "he must have relieved the first one. The other guard refused to let you enter, you say?"

"Yes, and he was very definite on that, and quite rude as well. I can't imagine a real guardsman behaving like that," she huffed.

Gandalf smiled, "I have an idea; follow my lead and be ready to move. We may have only a few minutes with Boromir—if he is indeed in there."

"But Gandalf, what if we do get inside and there's another guard?" Morloth asked apprehensively.

Gandalf snorted, "I'm hoping that is not the case. But if it is, then we may have to use Pippin's suggestion."

"Right!" Pippin said cheerily.

"Pippin, try to keep out of sight," Gandalf instructed, "I can provide a reason why Morloth and I are here, but there is no explanation for you."

"That's what Merry always says!" Pippin replied in an aggrieved tone. Morloth stifled a giggle.

Gandalf strode boldly out into the corridor and up to the guard in front of Boromir's door. Taking her cue from him, Morloth followed with her head held high and tried to look more confident than she actually felt. Pippin remained where he was, waiting for an opportunity to join them.

The wizard fixed the guard with an imperious look and said, "Lord Boromir's personal healer is here to tend him." He gestured toward the door, "If you would be so kind…"

The guard glanced nervously from Gandalf to Morloth, "Mithrandir," he stammered, "I have been instructed that he is to have no visitors."

Gandalf nodded sagely, "Very wise." He raised his eyebrows and looked at the door meaningfully, "Now?"

"I'm afraid I can't let you enter, my lord. Lord Boromir is ill," the guard told them, growing more uneasy by the moment.

"Yes, we know that, and this lady is his personal healer," Gandalf repeated slowly and carefully, as if explaining something to a particularly backward child. "Or are you suggesting that Lord Denethor would _not_ want his son and heir cared for during his illness?"

"Oh, no, my lord…" the guard began.

Before the guard could finish speaking, Gandalf turned toward the door and put his hand on the door handle, saying, "Good. Well then, if you'll excuse us…"

At the same time Morloth turned to follow Gandalf and—seemingly inadvertently—struck the guard with her bag. She began apologizing profusely to him. While the guard's attention was diverted by Morloth, Gandalf, his hand still on the door handle, closed his eyes and muttered a few words under his breath. The door shook slightly and came open. Seeing his chance, Pippin dashed forward just in time to follow Gandalf and Morloth into the room, over the protests of the surprised guard.

"I…I thought that door was locked!" the guard sputtered.

Gandalf smiled serenely at him, "Evidently not."

"I'm going to have to report this!" the guard exclaimed.

"You do that,' Pippin replied with a smile as he shut the door in the man's face.

Boromir's sitting room was empty. They made their way into the bedroom, and Morloth gave a sharp cry when she saw that there was someone lying on the bed. She rushed to the bedside—it was Boromir. He was lying on top of the bedcovers, and although his boots had been removed, otherwise he was dressed exactly as he had been the night before.

Morloth gave a quiet sob of relief when she saw his chest rise and fall, and quickly examined him. There were no new wounds—he merely looked to be asleep. She shook Boromir gently and called his name, but he did not awaken.

She turned to the wizard, "Mithrandir, it seems that he's just sleeping, but I don't understand why he's not waking." She shook her head, "It's almost as if he were given a sleeping draught of some sort."

Gandalf glanced at her sharply, "Is that possible? Where would one get something of that sort?"

"We have them at the Houses of Healing, though only a few are this powerful. They are used sparingly since patients can become dependent on them." Morloth looked up, her eyes troubled, "Only fully trained healers are permitted to dispense them."

Gandalf eyed her speculatively, "I can think of only one person in whose interest it would be to temporarily disable Boromir and prevent him from disputing Faramir's orders—the man who gave those orders. And I'd wager that if the Lord Steward were to request such a potion, a healer would provide it for him. Does the Steward have a personal healer?"

Morloth sighed, "Yes, his name is Narion, I know him slightly. But I…I cannot believe he would condone this! There is absolutely no reason why Boromir would need to take a powerful sleeping draught."

"He may simply have provided it to Lord Denethor in good faith without knowing how it was to be used," Gandalf reminded her. He laid a hand on her shoulder, "Morloth, if we want answers we need to wake Boromir and ask him. How long should the effects of the potion last?"

She shrugged, "Without knowing precisely what he was given, and when, and how much, it's very difficult to say. It could be hours yet."

Gandalf's eyes narrowed. "Hours we do not have. The guard may be back with reinforcements at any time." He gestured to Boromir, "If I may?"

Startled, Morloth replied, "Of course, Mithrandir. What are you planning to do?"

"Awaken him, if I can," Gandalf said shortly. He sat on the bed next to Boromir and placed his hand on his forehead. After a few moments of concentration he said some words in a language that neither Morloth nor Pippin understood. A shudder ran through Boromir's body, he gasped and opened his eyes.

"Boromir!" Morloth cried joyfully, clasping his hand tightly. "Dear Boromir, are you well?"

His eyes focused on her face, "Mor…Morloth?" he asked, clearly still a little befuddled. Boromir looked around to see Gandalf and Pippin standing by his bed, "What is happening? Why…why are you all here?" He put a hand to his head, "What time is it?"

Morloth's face fell, "It is morning, Boromir."

He stared at them and shook his head, his face stricken, "Morning? No! That is not possible! I would not have…" He looked wildly from face to face, demanding, "Tell me! What happened with Faramir?"

Their expressions told him all he needed to know. Morloth murmured, "He…he is gone, Boromir. Faramir is on his way to Osgiliath."

Boromir put his head in his hands, tears starting in his eyes. He said despairingly, "I failed him! I promised I would aid him and fell asleep instead. How could I have been so careless, so…callous and irresponsible to let him imperil himself to no purpose?"

"Boromir, you have not failed him!" Gandalf said briskly. "This is not your doing! You did not simply fall asleep; you were given a powerful sleeping draught by someone. We suspect that it was your father or another at his bidding."

"My…my father? How?" Suddenly Boromir's face cleared, "I remember now—the cordial! He was quite friendly and welcoming when I went to see him. He asked me to try some rare liquor he'd recently acquired… I thought it was a good sign that he might listen to me!"

He looked up, his face set and grim, "So it was a trick…a trick and a foul betrayal by my own father, a man who has always claimed to love me. And for what, to prevent me from protesting his heartless treatment of Faramir, someone he _should_ love?" He shook his head. "His cruel behavior toward you, dear lady, was bad enough," he said, clasping Morloth's hand, "but now…this time he has gone too far, this time there _will_ be a reckoning!"

Boromir started to rise from the bed, fury building in his face. Morloth grabbed his arm with an alarmed cry, "Boromir, please! There may be lingering affects from the sleeping draught. Please wait!"

'Morloth, I am fine; I must do this! If he has chosen to make me his enemy, by Eru I will be one! And I will make certain he knows that!"

"Boromir, stop!" Gandalf cried in his most commanding voice, "Stop and _think_! According to Morloth the potion given to you is not easy to come by; Denethor would have had to ask a healer to acquire some for him. It is surely no coincidence that he had it close to hand when you went to speak to him last night—what does that tell you?"

Boromir ceased struggling and fell against the pillows, his face pale. When he spoke it was barely above a whisper, "He planned this—he _knew_ what I would do. Father expected me to challenge him about Faramir."

Gandalf nodded, "That much is clear. He may have been hoping that you would blame yourself and assume what you did indeed think at first—that you had simply fallen asleep. But also ask yourself, if you did realize the truth, what would he expect you to do?"

Boromir met Gandalf's eyes, his face bleak, "He would expect me to confront him in a rage, as I almost did." He swore under his breath, "But why, Gandalf, _why_? Does he want me to hate him? What does he gain from this?"

Gandalf sighed heavily, "I do not know, Boromir, I can only guess. But think on this; if you were to go there now in a fury, making outrageous accusations about him dosing you with a sleeping draught, it would give Denethor a ready-made excuse to discredit you. He could even remove you from your post as Captain-General."

"But…" Boromir replied, bewildered, "he doesn't need an excuse, I serve at his will. He can remove me at any time if he wishes."

"If he removes you as Captain-General for no reason there will be questions, Boromir, you know that. Your Uncle Imrahil would certainly protest, and even the spineless fools on the Steward's Council would be moved to ask why."

Boromir's mouth set in a hard line, "But if I go there in anger, accusing him of having tricked and betrayed me, I will look like a wild and ungrateful son, and he will _have_ his reason." He blew out his breath in frustration, "I see that, but by Eru it galls me that I can do nothing to bring him to account!"

"I advise you to do nothing—for now. Gondor needs you too much to risk losing your leadership to your father's scheming. But if we survive the coming battle you may yet have your reckoning."

Suddenly they heard the door open in the outer chamber; loud voices and footsteps as several men crossed to the bedroom door. "Quick, Boromir, lie down," Gandalf hissed, "we may learn more if they think you are still asleep."

Boromir lay down and they just had time to pull the bed curtains closed before the bedroom door opened and four guardsman burst in.

The guard in front gave an ugly laugh, "Still here, I see. Well, that was a mistake." He glanced over at the bed, "Trying to wake the Lord's son, are you?" He shook his head, "I'm afraid we can't have that."

Gandalf's eyes narrowed but his tone was deceptively mild, "As I told that other fellow, we are here to tend Lord Boromir."

"That fool?" the lead guard said dismissively with a glance at the man in question who was among those standing behind him. "You may have able to talk your way past him, but that won't work with me! You are unneeded and unwanted—leave with no trouble, or we may just decide to clap you in irons."

"You are truly a fool if you think you have either the power or the authority to do that," Gandalf replied with a disdainful glance at the group.

The guard that had been at the door when they arrived blanched and muttered worriedly, "I'm not sure this is a good idea…"

"We have our orders," the leader growled, "they are not to be here—take them!"

"But he's a _wizard_!" the second guard protested.

"Naught but an old man—and a meddlesome one at that!" the leader scoffed. "We can take the woman at least; we were told particularly that she was not to see Lord Boromir." With that, he grabbed Morloth's arm and began pulling her toward the door.

Gandalf moved swiftly to assist, "_That_ is unwise," he growled. "Release her!"

While the guards were distracted by the confrontation with Gandalf, concealed by the bed curtains Boromir rose from the other side of the bed with Pippin's assistance. Bootless, Boromir padded silently around the bed before the guards realized their danger. Their first warning was the unmistakable sound of a sword scraping out of its scabbard.

In the next moment Boromir's blade was at the leader's throat. His voice was calm, but no one could mistake the deadly threat in it, "I will say this once, and once only. Let. Her. Go."

The man dropped Morloth's arm as if scalded, "My…my lord," he stammered.

"Guards of the Citadel laying hands on a woman and threatening honored guests in my presence?" Boromir went on, his blade never wavering. "No, that will not do."

The leader met Boromir's eyes and wilted visibly under his gaze, "But my lord, I…we had _orders_…"

"So you have said," Boromir noted, "and the name of the person who gave you those orders?"

The man opened his mouth but then glanced around to the other guards uncertainly. After a moment he dropped his eyes without speaking.

Boromir laughed, a sound with very little humor in it, "As I suspected. An odd thing about following orders that no one wishes to acknowledge; it is almost as if they were never given." His voice hardened, "Especially if there are ever questions about why you acted as you did."

He dropped his sword point and walked forward until he was standing eye to eye with the leader. Boromir was both taller and broader than the man and his fury made him even more menacing. After a long moment Boromir addressed him, "Now as High Warden of the White Tower and Captain-General of Gondor, _I_ will give you an order—one I will be all too happy to acknowledge. You and your fellows will stay away from here, and from me, and cease to trouble any of those I hold dear. If you disobey this order I promise you _will_ live to regret it—very, very briefly. Is that understood?"

"Yes, my lord," the guard murmured, his face white. Boromir gazed at the other men in turn until they had all done the same.

"Now get out of my sight!" Boromir said contemptuously. "You are a disgrace to the uniform that better men wear with pride."

The men turned to leave, but Boromir called to them, "Wait! Tell my father…" He stopped abruptly with a grim smile on his face, "On second thought, let him wonder. Begone!"

The men left hastily, with more than one worried look behind them. When the door closed after them, Boromir sank onto the bed. Morloth immediately joined him and he pulled her close.

"That was well done, Boromir," Gandalf said, putting his hand on Boromir's shoulder. "If they had not considered before the cost of their willingness to do Denethor's bidding, they surely will now. They must know he will never admit to his part in all of this."

Boromir met Gandalf's eyes, shaking his head sadly, "For three thousand years this city has stood for honor and courage—all the good that men can do. How did it come to this?"

Gandalf sighed, "I do not know, Boromir, but I mean to find out. But however it happened, together we must set it right."

Boromir nodded, "Give me a few more minutes, then I'll be fit to take up my duties again." A look of pain crossed his face, "I must do what I can for Faramir." He pulled Morloth tight against him with a heavy sigh.

"We will leave you two alone then," Gandalf said before steering Pippin out the door and closing it behind them.


	17. Chapter 17

_This chapter allows me to address a pet peeve of mine in the movies, as much as I love them. In the scene where Sauron's forces break the gate and overrun the first level, why the heck are all those civilians running around in a panic getting killed? It would seem to be the most basic of precautions to move all the non-combatants to the upper levels out of harm's way, so in my story, Boromir does that. :-)_

_Hope you enjoy it, and as always, reviews are appreciated!_

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Chapter 17

As they passed quickly through the corridors Gandalf muttered under his breath, "It makes no _sense_!"

"What doesn't, Gandalf?" Pippin asked him. "I thought you had figured out what Lord Denethor is up to."

"I understand what he's doing, but Boromir is right, it does not explain _why_," Gandalf replied, shaking his head in frustration. Seeing Pippin's confusion, he continued, "Boromir and his father have fought in the past, sometimes bitterly, over Faramir, over policy issues, over other matters. Despite that, Denethor has always been very canny in his treatment of Boromir, knowing just how far to push him without going too far and alienating him. Boromir's love and loyalty for his father run deep and have withstood much in the past, but _this_? Denethor _must_ know that the terrible betrayal with the sleeping draught on top his cruel treatment of Faramir and Morloth could damage Boromir's love for him past mending.

"Why has he chosen to do this when having Boromir's love has always been so important to him? And why _now_, when Gondor desperately needs unity of purpose from its leaders?" He looked down at Pippin, his face bleak, "It is as if the hand of the Dark Lord has reached into the White Tower itself to confuse and dishearten his enemies." Gandalf's mouth set in a grim line, "I do not understand why or how this is happening, but I mean to find out!"

-ooo-

Boromir surveyed the activity below him from his command post on the third level of the city, which was slowing now as final preparations for the siege neared completion. The two lowest levels had been cleared of non-combatants and were now stocked with the materials of war and would serve as temporary lodging for the men manning the walls. The third level had likewise been cleared and would be used as a staging area for the healers to process casualties, separate the living from the dead, and determine which of the wounded should be transferred to the Houses of Healing on the sixth level.

He sighed—Boromir supposed he should be grateful that the population of Minas Tirith had declined over the last few centuries; otherwise the upper levels of the city would be unbearably crowded. As it was, as many civilians as were willing and had a place to go had left for parts of Gondor that it was hoped would be less likely to bear the brunt of Mordor's armies than the city itself. The families of both Beregond and Morloth's sister had chosen to stay, and he prayed that their faith in the strength of the city's defenses was not misplaced.

Not for the first time that day his eyes strayed east and his thoughts turned to Faramir and his men. No word had come from them all day and his heart felt like a stone in his chest when he considered what that might mean. Boromir ground his teeth in barely suppressed rage; thinking of Faramir's plight inevitably brought his father's treachery to mind. He knew Gandalf was right in urging him to caution, but by Eru it was hard to let it go unanswered! The worst of it was there was little he could do to help his brother directly; he had briefly considered recalling Faramir and his men on his own authority, but in the end such public defiance of his father's orders would cause more problems than it solved. As painful as it was to accept, he realized his responsibility to Gondor outweighed his desire to protect Faramir from harm.

His grim musings were interrupted when a courier hurried up to him and bowed smartly before handing him a sealed message. He glanced at the message and almost cried out in delight; it was addressed to him in Faramir's own hand! Nearly speechless with relief he finally found the words to dismiss the courier, telling him he would call when a reply was ready. Boromir leaned against the parapet and let out a long, slow breath to regain his composure; here was proof, irrefutable proof that his brother still lived, at least until a short time ago. He opened the message and perused it; it was brief and to the point, but much could be read between the lines. Faramir reported that they had harried the enemy columns all day and had lost a quarter of their men. Now with the day waning to true night under Sauron's shadow he planned to retreat with his remaining men to reinforce the Causeway Forts. Boromir gave a nod of satisfaction. Faramir had indeed done well to keep as many of his men alive as he had, and they would be much better positioned for retreat to the city from the forts.

He pulled a message parchment from a nearby stack but then paused, his brow furrowed. Boromir knew well enough what he wanted to say, but how to say it? His gut twisted at the thought of Faramir riding away, likely to his death, believing that his brother cared nothing for his safety despite a vow to protect him from their father's malice. How could he reassure Faramir that he still loved him and would do his best to assist him?

Boromir's thoughts drifted back to a happier time, when he and Faramir were both children and their beloved mother, Finduilas, was still alive. Everything seemed so simple then, their mother's love a constant in their lives and their father not yet lost in bitterness and grief. His throat closed at the memory of his mother sitting, an arm around each son, telling them their favorite bedtime stories. The stories always began in the same manner, as a tale of two bear brothers, Big Bear and Little Bear. They were both brave, and strong, and clever, she would say, but Big Bear was _especially_ strong and Little Bear was _particularly_ clever. In her tales, the two brothers would invariably work together to extricate themselves from whatever scrape they found themselves in. A smile crept across Boromir's face; most would call them childish now, but how he and Faramir adored those stories!

This safe and happy world had come to an abrupt end with their mother's death. Faramir had been so young—just five summers—that he had cried himself to sleep for days afterward in grief and confusion. At first Boromir had let Faramir sleep in his bed with him to console him; they would huddle together with Boromir telling his brother all of their mother's stories that he could recall. That comfort was not to last either; when their father learned of it he forbade Faramir from leaving his own bed at night. Heartsick, Boromir did what a ten-year-old could do to help his grieving brother; he began laboriously writing out the tales and sending them to Faramir to read at night.

His mind snapped back to the present with a jolt. Of course! He quickly wrote out his orders for his brother; affirming his decision to retreat to the forts and emphasizing that Faramir and his men should return to Minas Tirith as soon as the general retreat from the outer defenses was ordered. He spent some time on the signature; instead of his usual careless scrawl, he closed the message with an elaborate stylized 'B'. If one looked carefully and exercised some imagination one might notice that the B had a face, ears and a tail, and resembled a smiling bear. It was the symbol he had invented many years before to sign the stories he sent to Faramir and assure him that, even though they were parted, Big Bear was watching over Little Bear.

Boromir sealed the message and called for a courier. When it was handed off for delivery he sighed, his thoughts turned inward again. He had done what he could to reassure his brother, at least until he had a chance to explain in person why he had not done as he had promised. He glanced eastward toward the Causeway Forts and said a silent prayer that he would get that chance.

-ooo-

Later that day Boromor was finally persuaded to leave his post for the evening meal. He, Morloth and Pippin met in his room for Pippin's long-promised and long-delayed tale of his adventures with Merry.

Duinor, still looking a little subdued after the recent disturbances, laid out a meal for them that made Pippin's eyes brighten.

"Gandalf said he would join us later, but not to wait for him. Do you think we should save some food for him?" Pippin asked anxiously, obviously hoping the answer would be 'no'.

Boromir smiled, knowing his hobbit friend all too well. "Duinor can bring more if necessary, Pippin, so enjoy yourself. This will likely be the last hearty meal for some time; once the siege begins we'll all be on rations."

"Oh, I will then," Pippin said with an alarmed expression, and helped himself to what looked to be enough food to last out the siege.

It was a merry evening, at least as much as could be expected given the grim circumstances. Even Pippin had enough to eat, and his friends listened with rapt attention to his stories of Fangorn, Isengard and Rohan. Boromir had been to Meduseld many times of course, and was keenly interested in the happenings there. To Morloth it was all new and fascinating. She questioned Pippin so closely on the effects of the Ent draught that he was a little chagrined that he had not paid better attention to its healing properties.

Morloth sighed wistfully, "I wonder if after the war your friend Treebeard might be persuaded to give me a sample."

"We could certainly ask him," Pippin replied cheerfully, "if you don't mind traveling all the way to Fangorn Forest."

"Oh, I wouldn't mind that at all!" Morloth exclaimed. "Though I think I'll skip the 'captured by orcs' part, just the same."

"Very wise of you, Morloth, I wouldn't recommend it," Pippin said gravely, though his eyes were alight.

They all fell silent, inevitably reminded of Sauron's orc army that marched ever nearer to them.

Boromir straightened resolutely, "The city will hold until Rohan comes. We must, and we will," he added firmly.

Morloth smiled and leaned against him, "How could it not with two such valiant defenders?"

At that moment Duinor entered, escorting a weary-looking Gandalf.

"Gentlemen, my lady," he said, nodding to them in turn. "Boromir, I have the latest news from the outer defenses."

"Any word from Faramir?" Boromir asked anxiously.

The wizard shook his head and handed Boromir a sealed message, "I believe it is from one of the other commanders."

Boromir sighed, "Excuse me; I'll need to compose a reply." He took the message and passed into the inner chamber to use his writing desk.

As soon as the door closed behind him Morloth addressed Gandalf, "Mithrandir, I was hoping for an opportunity to speak with you."

"Yes, Morloth? How may I aid you?" he asked politely.

"I…I found something that I think might be important. I considered showing it to Boromir, but any reminder of what his father has done angers and upsets him so…"

Gandalf nodded encouragingly, "I understand, my lady. What is it that you have found?"

She opened her medical bag, pulled a piece of parchment from it and handed it to the wizard. "After the sleeping draught was given to Boromir I remembered that whenever a healer uses one of the restricted potions they are supposed to be recorded in a log book. So I thought it was worth checking to see whether anything of that sort had been signed out near the time it was used on Boromir.

"That is a page from the log book; as you can see the second name listed is Narion's, Lord Denthor's personal healer. He recorded that he took a sleeping potion from the stores the afternoon before it was given to Boromir."

"My word, Morloth, this _is_ important!" Gandalf exclaimed. "Boromir can use it as evidence that he was indeed given a sleeping potion by his father without his knowledge."

"I think it also suggests that if Narion acquired the potion on the Steward's behalf, he did so not knowing how it was to be used," Morloth added. "Healers are expected to leave a record when they take a restricted potion from the stores, but the potion cabinet is not guarded. He could have easily taken it without signing the log if he wished to conceal his involvement."

Gandalf raised one bushy eyebrow, "Very astute of you, Morloth. But this seems to be the actual page from the log book. Will no one notice that it is missing?"

She shook her head, replying, "I don't think so, Mithrandir. As you can see, it was a new page with only two entries on it. I was careful to remove the page neatly, and since the pages are only numbered as they are used, I numbered the following page consecutively to hide that one was missing."

"Oh, that was clever, Morloth!" Pippin exclaimed, staring at her admiringly.

Gandalf's eyes twinkled, "Indeed it was. I think Lord Denethor has erred by underestimating both your wit and his healer's honesty."

Morloth blushed, "Thank you, Mithrandir. But now what should I do with it? Perhaps it would be better if you or Boromir were to take charge of it."

Gandalf looked thoughtful, "I think you are right that it would just anger Boromir if he were to see it. However, I believe Boromir said you are staying with Beregond's family for now…"

She nodded, "Yes, Boromir thought it was best that I do so until after the battle and matters can be resolved with his father."

"Hmm, though I think it unlikely that Lord Denethor will realize his error in overlooking this evidence of his perfidy, I deem it even less likely that he will look for it—or you—in Beregond's home. I suggest that you keep it there safe there until it is needed."

"All right, Mithrandir," Morloth smiled, as she tucked the parchment back into her bag, "I'll do that."

A few minutes later Boromir returned after giving his reply to a courier waiting in the corridor. He sat next to Morloth with a sigh, "The forts and the wall are holding for now, but they have not yet felt the full force of Sauron's armies." He scrubbed a hand over his face, "I am tempted to go back to the command post, but I suspect this would be a good time to sleep. We will get very little once the siege begins."

Gandalf nodded, "I agree, you should rest now while you can. They can call you if you are needed." He caught Boromir's eyes with a keen glance, "I hesitate to add to your burdens, Boromir, but there is something else I think you should know—about your father."

Boromir stiffened and stared at Gandalf intently. Morloth reached over and clasped his hand in wordless support. "What is it, Gandalf?" Boromir asked, his face bleak.

"I have known your father all his life," Gandalf told him with a troubled expression, "and although he has never welcomed my counsel and we have often disagreed, I have never doubted that he has acted for the good of Gondor as he sees it. But of late something has changed; your father has changed, and I no longer understand what motivates his decisions; nor am I certain he can be entrusted with the safety of Gondor." Gandalf sighed, "I believe you have seen this as well."

Boromir bowed his head and whispered, "Yes, I have seen it."

"Since this latest incident—your father dosing you with a sleeping draught to prevent you from protesting his treatment of your brother—I have been trying to learn what I can about this change in Lord Denethor. It has been difficult; your father has isolated himself from all but those he considers most loyal to him, but Beregond was quite helpful by relating what he and the other guardsmen have seen over the last year.

"All I have been able to discern are tantalizing hints: Lord Denethor disappearing into the upper levels of the Tower and returning hours later gray and bent. Strange lights in the tower, and your father displaying knowledge of events far away—well in advance of official reports reaching Minas Tirith. The way he has treated you, Boromir, since your return, so unlike the love he has always shown for you previously."

"But—what does that all mean, Gandalf?" Boromir asked. "I can make so sense of it!"

"A year past and I would not have either, Boromir. But now, when I recall the source of Saruman's downfall, I am afraid." He met Boromir's eyes, "I am afraid that your father has found, and is using the seeing stone of Minas Anor, a _palantír_."

Pippin gasped, staring at Gandalf in dismay, "Oh, no!"

Boromir started in surprise at Pippins reaction, puzzlement clear in his voice, "I have heard tales of the _palantíri, _of course, Gandalf, and it would certainly be a wonder if one had survived after so long. But I don't understand why it would be a cause for such concern."

Gandalf raised an eyebrow at Pippin, "You did not tell them?"

The hobbit reddened, "I'm afraid I...left that part out."

The wizard snorted, "Indeed." He caught Boromir's eyes, "Pippin has more cause than most to know the peril of using a _palantír, _since he has done so himself. We recovered one, the Orthanc stone, when confronting Saruman, which Pippin used not understanding the danger."

"What danger?" Boromir asked impatiently.

Gandalf sighed heavily, "I have long suspected that the stone of Minas Ithil was not removed or destroyed before the tower fell to Sauron's forces. Now it has been confirmed; Sauron himself is in possession of that stone, and Saruman was using the Orthanc stone to communicate with him. All the stones can speak to the others, but it is said that the Ithil and Anor stones have a particularly affinity for one another." He met Boromir's eyes, "I greatly fear for your father if he has been using the Minas Anor _palantír_."

Boromir paled and gazed at Gandalf in horror, "You think Father is being controlled by Sauron?"

"Controlled, no, thank Eru." Gandalf replied. "I think we would see far worse affects if that were the case. It may be that your father's will is too strong, and unlike Saruman, his intentions are still for the good of the free peoples of Middle-Earth. If he is indeed using the _palantír_, I suspect what he sees is being influenced by Sauron; made to believe the situation is even more dire than it is, and given reason to distrust those, like you, whose opinions he has in the past valued."

Boromir scrubbed a hand over his face, "That would explain many things that otherwise make no sense—for instance, that he was certain I was dead even though you told him that I lived. But what should we do?"

The wizard shook his head, "I fear all we can do at the moment is watch and wait. Remember that this is all supposition on my part—unless he is found using the _palantír_ and we can convince the Steward's Council of the danger there is not enough evidence to remove him from office."

"Remove him from office?" Boromir stared at Gandalf, his eyes wide. "Gandalf, trying to force him to give up the Steward's staff without sufficient cause would be high treason!"

Gandalf nodded, his face grim, "I know, and I hope most earnestly it will not required. But you need to understand that it _may_ be, if his decisions become more erratic and begin to imperil the city's defenses. As his heir you must be ready to step in and assume command if it becomes necessary."

"Gandalf, I do not want this!" Boromir exclaimed, a note of desperation in his voice. "Though I have always known I was destined to become Steward someday, I have never been eager to take his place. Perhaps Aragorn…"

"Perhaps," the wizard agreed cautiously, "but Aragorn is not here, and may not arrive in time." Gandalf looked at him kindly, "Boromir, I understand how you feel, and it is to your credit that you are reluctant to take this step. However, during this struggle many will be called upon to find the courage to do things for which they are not ready."

Boromir sighed, "I know you are right, Gandalf. Frodo and Sam found the courage to set forth for Mordor alone; taking on a burden earlier than expected that I knew I would have to shoulder someday seems like a small thing in comparison. But I pray most fervently it does not come to that!"


	18. Chapter 18

_You may notice that other than the original material, the next few chapters follow the book more closely than the movie. I just prefer the book version in this part of the story, and although I understand why Imrahil was left out of the movies, I like the character and want to include him and his family whenever it makes sense to do so._

_Hope you enjoy it—please let me know what you think!_

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Chapter 18

At dawn the next day Boromir was at his post on the third level. He stalked to one end of the section of wall that he had claimed as his command post and gazed east, a low growl in his throat. He then turned and strode to the other end, but the view from that location was no more pleasing, and received a ferocious glare. Beregond, wise in the ways of commanders, did his best to stay out of the way and be as unobtrusive as possible, while at the same time ready to offer his services if necessary.

One would not expect the Captain-General of Gondor's forces to be in an ebullient mood given the circumstances, but Beregond had noticed that Lord Boromir's temper had deteriorated markedly in the last day, and showed no sign of improving any time soon. The guardsman suspected that something had occurred to further damage Boromir's relationship with his father besides their confrontation over Morloth. As far as Beregond could tell there had been no further discussions of strategy between the Lord Steward and his Captain-General, even at this crucial stage in the city's defense.

A distinguished-looking man with graying hair strolled up to where Boromir was standing. Over his mail he wore a fine blue surcoat embroidered with a silver boat in the shape of a swan. "You wished to see me, Boromir?"

Boromir face lit and he clasped arms with the newcomer, "Yes, thank you for coming, Uncle." He sighed and glanced east, "We received word a short time ago that Sauron's army has engaged our troops along the length of the wall. I do not know how long it will hold, but I expect the answer is 'not long.' We have too few men to assign more than a token force to the entire twelve leagues.

"I have arranged to call for an orderly retreat to the city when Sauron's forces break through at any point on the wall—we simply cannot risk having our men surrounded and destroyed. Our available mounted forces are at the ready to support the retreat," Boromir's voice hardened with barely concealed anger, "but most were sent with Faramir by order of the Steward. With the number remaining…"

Prince Imrahil held up a hand and smiled, "Say no more, my boy. My knights and I would be honored to assist."

"My thanks, Uncle," Boromir told him, returning his smile, "I am more grateful than you know. I will inform Captain Goldor that you are to be in overall command of the sortie."

The older man clapped his nephew on the shoulder genially, "You may be certain we will keep a sharp eye out for that wayward brother of yours."

Boromir chuckled, looking chagrined, "Is it that obvious?"

Imrahil shook his head, "Not at all. I need only consider how I would feel if one of my sons was in his position. Besides," he noted wryly, "I'm rather fond of Faramir too, you know."

He paused and met Boromir's eyes, his face troubled, "Have you spoken to your father recently?"

Boromir's face set. "No, nor do I plan to," he said shortly.

Imrahil sighed, "Boromir, I understand your anger; I disagree with his decision to send Faramir to Osgiliath and would have told him so in the strongest of terms if given the opportunity. But such a rift between the Steward and his heir may very well worsen what is already a time of the gravest peril for Gondor and its people."

His nephew's temper flared, "I will see that it does not!" Regaining his composure, Boromir scrubbed a hand over his face. "My pardon, Uncle. If that was all that Father had done of late to anger me I might—_might_," he repeated for emphasis, "find it possible to set my feelings aside for the sake of Gondor. But it is not," he looked up and met Imrahil's eyes, "and you do not know what you ask of me. You must believe me when I say that it would not be at all wise for me to meet with my father at this time."

The Prince stared at him in surprise, "Nephew, what is it? I know you two have often disagreed and sometimes quarreled very fiercely in the past. But what is it that he has done that you cannot forgive?"

Boromir leaned against the parapet and sighed, "I cannot say. Mithrandir believes that it would be too distracting and divisive to discuss these matters openly now, when Gondor's very existence is in jeopardy. And in this I judge him to be correct. For it is not just what Father has done to anger me, but other things as well…odd and troubling behavior both while I was gone and since I have returned."

Imrahil paled, "Boromir, my blood runs cold to hear you speak this way, these sound like serious concerns! Eru knows that Mithrandir is not one to start at shadows. If there is any question of your father's fitness to lead us, I need to know!"

"There are things we know to be true and those we suspect," Boromir said, shaking his head, "but neither is sufficient without proof of our claims. I feel it is best to let it lie until we are past this current crisis. On my honor, if the siege is lifted and we both live I will tell you all you wish."

Imrahil raised an eyebrow, "You do know, Boromir, that is not comforting in the least." He sighed, "But I suppose it will be enough for now. I will ready my knights; it seems they may be needed soon."

Boromir briefly embraced his uncle, "Thank you Uncle—Faramir and I have always valued your support."

"It is the least I can do to honor dear Finduilas' memory, especially since her boys have grown into such fine men," Imrahil replied, clasping his nephew's arm affectionately before departing.

A short time later it happened as Boromir expected—and dreaded. Little could be seen under Sauron's shadow, but clearly visible in the gloom the red light of fires sprang up along the Rammas Echor, and flashes of light could be seen, accompanied by heavy rumbles like thunder. The enemy forces were blasting breeches in the wall.

Boromir cursed to himself and ordered the trumpeters to signal the retreat, and a few moments later he watched as Prince Imrahil and his men streamed out of the gate. After that, all he could do—all the city could do—was wait until the jaws of Sauron's trap closed about them, and pray that the cost would not be too high.

Typically, it was Gandalf that first brought tidings from the battle front. Still dusty from the saddle, he strode up to Boromir's command post, his face grim. "What news, Gandalf?" Boromir asked impatiently. "Is Faramir…"

"Alive and uninjured, when last I saw him," Gandalf told him with a comforting smile. "They are hard-pressed by the enemy, and he stayed with the rearguard to prevent the retreat from becoming a rout." The wizard shook his head, "But I greatly fear for him, for he is pitted against a foe far beyond his strength. The Witch-King has come, and is driving his forces to madness before him."

"No!" Boromir exclaimed, "I…I must go to him! Beregond, find a mount for me!"

Gandalf held up a hand to forestall him, "Boromir, your place is here! The Swan Knights passed me at the gate as I entered; you know your uncle will do his utmost to protect Faramir. I will be returning to the field soon as well, I came here only to guard to safeguard the wounded returning from the outer defenses and to bring you word of the battle. Besides," he added, "it is not your duty to confront this foe." His voice fell, "But a time may come when it is mine."

"Gandalf, I feel so useless here!" Boromir said despairingly.

The wizard put his hands on Boromir's shoulders and met his eyes, "You are where you need to be, Boromir, never doubt that." He smiled reassuringly, "No one questions your courage, but what you are doing now requires a different kind of courage than you are accustomed to. In the end you may be all that stands between Gondor and the darkness that threatens it—you will be the one to give your people the courage to defy the darkness."

Gandalf patted Boromir on the shoulder, "Have a little faith in yourself, Boromir, you have already earned the trust of those who stand with you." And with that, he was gone, striding quickly toward the gate to the second level.

-ooo-

In the next few hours Boromir and Beregond watched the retreating forces creep steadily nearer to the city and safety, all the while fending off the swords and clubs of Sauron's horde that filled the Pelennor behind them. As many of the wounded who could be saved were carried to the city gates, but it was heartbreaking to think of the men left lying on the field out of reach; there would be no hope of rescue once the plain was overrun by the enemy. But many more would have been lost if not for Gandalf and the mounted men under the Prince's command. Again and again they charged the enemy, giving the foot soldiers a brief respite from their attackers and a chance to make more progress toward the gate.

The day drew toward evening, recognizable only by the deepening of ever-present gloom. Now the rearguard was only a few hundred yards from the gate, and Boromir's heart leapt to see Faramir's banner still flying.

Boromir turned to Beregond, shaking his head, "It strikes me that we are doing the same cursed thing we were doing two days ago—worrying and waiting for Faramir's return. And for no good reason!" he growled.

Beregond still gazing at the plain below, cried, "More alike than you know—look!"

A shrill cry rent the air, and several dark shapes descended from the clouds above the retreating men, swooping in for the kill—the Nazgûl had arrived.

"No," Boromir said faintly, in his dismay hoping for a brief moment that his eyes had deceived him.

The orderly retreat dissolved into chaos as men fled wildly in terror or fell to the ground and cast their weapons aside in despair. Two of the winged wraiths dropped among the mounted men surrounding Faramir's banner, felling many and scattering the rest. Eager to take advantage of the situation Sauron's troops surged forward, threatening to engulf the Gondorians.

"No!" Boromir cried again, fear like a knife in his heart. A flash of white pierced the gloom as Shadowfax thundered into the midst of the battle. Gandalf, aglow with light of his own making, called out in a loud voice, staff upraised. The Nazgûl shrieked and wheeled away, unwilling to challenge the White Rider.

Close behind Gandalf came the Swan Knights; they charged the enemy forces, breaking their formation and riding down any who opposed them. Behind the barrier of mounted knights and at the urging of their officers, the surviving foot soldiers reformed into companies and resumed their march toward the gate.

Boromir turned and sprinted toward the gate to the second level, Beregond close on his heels. When they arrived at the main gate, the final group of infantry was marching in, weary and battered, but obviously relieved to have reached safety. The mounted rearguard followed, and Boromir searched them frantically for any sign of his brother. One of the last to arrive was Damrod, who had a shallow sword wound in his leg and all but fell from his horse when dismounting.

Boromir helped him stand and asked urgently, "Faramir…where?"

Damrod leaned against his Captain-General gratefully and met his eyes, "Wounded, my lord." He gazed over Boromir's head toward the gate and nodded, "There."

"See that he gets to the healers," Boromir told Beregond, who had appeared at his side to offer his shoulder to the injured Ranger. Beregond nodded understanding and Boromir turned away to see the Dol Amroth contingent streaming through the gate. Last among them came the blue swan banner and the Prince, with an unconscious Faramir held tightly in his arms. Imrahil reined in his horse next to his anxious nephew, and Boromir could see that an arrow was protruding from his brother's right arm.

"I believe it is only the arrow, Boromir," the Prince assured him before he could ask. "But he fell from his horse and was almost slain where he lay before I could reach him."

Boromir leaned against Imrahil's horse, head bowed, his relief so profound he could hardly speak, "Thank…thank you, Uncle."

The Prince smiled at his nephew, understanding without being told the depth of Boromir's gratitude. "Where would you like me to take him, Boromir? The Citadel?"

Boromir straightened and said sharply, "No!" He met his uncle's eyes and his voice softened, "Please take him to the Houses of Healing and ask for Morloth—there is no one I would trust more with his care."

Imrahil eyed him curiously but did not question his instructions, "Of course, Boromir." He turned to his sons; they had ridden in with him and were waiting nearby, "Elphir, Erchirion, see to the men and the horses. Amrothos, you are with me." The Prince addressed his nephew again and said softly, "Boromir, your father should be told of Faramir's injury…"

"I have no doubt he will learn of it soon enough," Boromir said with a bitter laugh. "His spies are nothing if not efficient. But if you wish to inform him after Faramir is in Morloth's care, I will not try to dissuade you." He sighed, "I would go with you now if I could, but there is too much here that requires my attention. Please tell Morloth that I will come to see Faramir as soon as I am able."

Imrahil nodded and set off toward the Houses of Healing, his wounded nephew still secure in his grasp.

-ooo-

The Prince found stretcher-bearers near the Houses of Healing who had just delivered their previous charge; with their help and that of Amrothos they were able to ease Faramir from the horse onto a stretcher.

As they entered the building the Warden of the Houses hurried up to meet them, clearly warned of their arrival. He bowed in greeting, "My lord Prince, I am told that Lord Faramir is in need of our care. We will tend to him immediately."

The Prince gave him a grateful smile, "Thank you Warden. Lord Boromir requested he be placed in the care of a Healer named Morloth, if you would be so kind…"

"Ah, of course," the Warden responded. If he had reservations about this preference, he gave no sign of it. "Any of our healers would be honored to care for Lord Faramir, but Morloth tended to Lord Boromir when he was gravely injured not long ago, and he has a high regard for her skills." The Warden smiled and gestured down the corridor. "You will find her in the last ward on the right."

As they set off down the corridor, in an undertone that only his father could hear Amrothos commented, "It is rumored that there is a woman who has contributed to the recent…difficulties between my cousin and his father. I wonder if this Morloth might be the mystery woman."

Imrahil stared at his son in surprise, "What mystery woman? I have heard nothing of this!"

Amrothos smiled tightly, "It is said that strong words passed between Boromir and the Steward over his son's preference for a certain lady. The Lord Denethor, it seems, does not approve of her, which is in my opinion entirely to her credit, whoever she may be," he added dryly.

Imrahil gave his son a censorious glance, well aware that his children often found their noble uncle to be a less than congenial companion.

Amrothos shrugged apologetically before continuing, "At first I was reluctant to believe it; although my valiant cousin enjoys the company of women almost as much as they enjoy his, to my knowledge he has never shown enough partiality for one to earn his father's ire."

"It has happened at least once before," the Prince said, gazing at his son thoughtfully, "many years ago. You were too young at the time to remember it."

Amrothos' eyebrows rose, "Indeed? What…"

They had reached the door that the Warden had indicated, so the Prince waved his son to silence, "Later, Amrothos."

They entered, and although there were several women in the room, there was absolutely no doubt in Imrahil's mind which was the one they were seeking. Even in a plain gown of Healer gray she was a beauty, and he could readily believe that his nephew thought her company worth defying his father's wishes.

Her coloring was similar to both his sister Finduilas and his daughter Lothíriel, with luxuriant dark hair piled on her head, and when she turned her gaze toward them, clear gray eyes. But there the similarities ended, she was taller than Finduilas or Lothíriel, and where Imrahil's kinswomen both had an air of sweetness and fragility—much to his daughter's chagrin, for she was stronger than she appeared and hated to be underestimated—this woman radiated strength. _Strength and resilience, like a well-tempered blade,_ he thought, and then chuckled at his own fancy.

Beside him, Amrothos let out a low whistle and murmured, "If the rumors are true I can find no fault with my cousin's taste!"

Recognizing the admiring look on his son's face, Imrahil felt a warning was in order, "I would recommend caution, Amrothos, you would be ill-advised to challenge your cousin's temper—or his sword arm."

His son grinned, "Have no fear, Father; I have the utmost respect for both."

The lady in question crossed the room to meet them, and sank into a curtsey. "My lord Prince, how may I help you? I am Morloth, the Healer in charge of this ward."

Imrahil bowed in reply and took her hand, "We come seeking you, my lady." He nodded toward Amrothos, who smiled and clasped her hand in his turn, "This is my youngest son, Amrothos." Courtesies thus discharged, he continued, "My nephew Faramir was wounded in the retreat from the outer defenses and his brother commends him to your care."

Her eyes widened, then darted toward the stretcher that the bearers were now carrying into the room. "Oh no, Lord Faramir is wounded?" she exclaimed, her face drawn with concern. "Of course, I will see to him immediately." She directed them to place Faramir on an empty bed nearby, and once that was done began to examine him closely, starting with the arrow still embedded in his arm. A small curly-haired figure hurried over; he had been sitting near where Morloth had been working when they arrived.

"Morloth, will he be all right?" the small man asked anxiously. Imrahil recognized him as the halfing friend of Boromir's who he had seen from afar but never met.

"I believe so, Pippin, the only wound I've found so far is from the arrow," Morloth replied. She glanced up briefly and smiled before continuing her examination, "Pippin, allow me to introduce you to Boromir's uncle, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, and his son Amrothos. My lord Prince, this is Peregrin Took, a hobbit of the Shire. He was one of Boromir's companions on his journey from Rivendell, and a dear friend."

The hobbit bowed deeply, "It is an honor to meet you both, and a great pleasure to meet more of Boromir's family. He mentioned you many times when we traded tales during our journey." He grinned at Amrothos, "I recall one story he told, something about a pony and a pig-sty…"

Imrahil choked back a laugh, and was not at all surprised to see his son redden. That particular story was one Amrothos would be happy if no one remembered, which of course ensured that it was retold regularly at family gatherings.

Meanwhile, Morloth had completed her examination of Faramir and joined them, addressing the Prince, "My lord, there is a private room nearby that has been prepared for your nephew. We will be moving him there soon."

"Thank you, my lady. How is Faramir?"

"There is every reason to believe he will recover," Morloth assured him, though Imrahil noted some uncertainty in her voice. After a moment's hesitation she asked, "Do you know how long he has been unconscious?"

He met her eyes, his feeling of unease growing, "He fell from his horse after the arrow struck him, my lady. I was too far away to see precisely what happened, but when I reached him he was already unconscious and has been since then. Is that a cause for concern?"

"It _may_ be," she replied cautiously. "It is…surprising that he has not yet regained consciousness. A head injury from the fall would account for it, but I saw no sign of one. Nor does there seem to have been significant blood loss." She shook her head and smiled, "It also may mean nothing; he could very well awaken after the arrow is removed.

"That is my next task," she added. "It will be quite painful for him, the arrowhead is firmly lodged in the bone and it will take some time to remove. I am thankful no one tried to remove it in the field; doing so could have easily caused more damage. But it might ease him to hear a familiar voice while I am working, if Boromir does not arrive in time would one of you be willing...?"

After enough experience with healers who treat patients and their families as half-wits to be placated and told as little as possible, Imrahil found Morloth's forthrightness to be a refreshing and welcome change. He nodded and smiled warmly, "Of course, Morloth. I will be happy to stay with Faramir if his brother cannot."

An aide caught her attention and spoke to her in a low voice. She looked up at smiled at the Prince and his son, "We are ready to move Faramir, it will just take a moment." And so it did; two aides deftly shifted their patient to a stretcher and carried it through a side door and into a corridor behind the main ward where there were several private rooms. Faramir's room was spacious and comfortable, with chairs for visitors and a window that would under normal circumstances have a fine view of the plain below.

Once her charge was settled, Morloth told his kinsmen, "I need to gather some supplies for the arrow removal, but the preparations will not take long."

But before she could leave to set about her tasks, a familiar voice roared from the main ward, "Where is my son? I will not have my son kept from me!"

Imrahil exchanged a concerned look with Amrothos, but a glance told him that they were not the only ones to recognize the speaker's voice. Morloth and Pippin had locked eyes, their faces mirroring alarm and dismay.


	19. Chapter 19

_In this chapter, Boromir and Denethor 'have words' over Faramir, and there's an entirely gratuitous scene between Boromir and Morloth—I can't have my readers forgetting that this is a romance as well! :-)  
_

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Chapter 19

Morloth's alarm did not extend to inaction, after a bare moment's hesitation she leaned close to the hobbit for a brief but intense conversation. Pippin listened attentively and nodded, his face set and resolved, before taking off like a hare for a side exit.

He had just disappeared from view when the door from the main ward was flung open with considerable force, and the Lord Steward entered, followed by two liveried guards, the Warden and an elderly man in healer gray.

"My lord," the Warden was protesting, "calm yourself, I beg you! There is no reason for concern, and I fear you will disturb our patients!"

The Steward gave a dismissive snort in reply, and his eyes locked on Morloth. She paled under his baleful gaze, and Imrahil could see that her hands were shaky slightly. "You!" he said accusingly. "How dare you keep my son from me? Where is Faramir?"

Despite her distress, she met his eyes resolutely, "That was never my intention, nor would it be for any healer in the Houses."

"Quite right," the Warden agreed. "It is as I said, my lord, your worries are entirely unfounded!"

"Lord Faramir is here, in my care," Morloth continued, "as are many other wounded from the recent battles. I would be happy to discuss his condition with you, my lord, if you wish."

Denethor gave her a contemptuous look before replying, "That is unnecessary; he is no longer in your care—he is coming with me. Warden, summon bearers to transport him to the Citadel."

"My lord!" the Warden remonstrated in an outraged tone.

"I would most strongly advise against that," Morloth said with a steely glint in her eyes. "He has an arrow in his arm that must be removed; it is lodged in the bone and it will be challenging to extract it without causing further damage. Moving him before that is done could endanger him to no purpose."

"Oh, and you claim that you are the only healer capable of this 'challenging task'?" the Lord Steward sneered. "I think not; Narion can do it," he added, gesturing toward the elderly healer who had accompanied him.

Narion stared at the Lord Steward, a look of alarm on his face, "Lord Denethor, battle wounds were never my specialty, and it has indeed been many years since I have removed an arrow. I have no doubt that you wish the best possible care for your son; the Lady Morloth is a skilled healer, and has had much more extensive experience in this area than I have. Would it not be wiser to let her tend your son, at least for the present?"

Denethor regarded Narion through narrowed eyes. "You also seek to thwart my will?" he hissed. "I tell you, I will not have it!"

Imrahil, taken aback by Denethor's intransigence, wondered whether his brother-in-law's true—if unstated—objection was to the lady herself and not to the care Faramir was likely to receive at her hands. He also began to be worried by the direction of the conversation, since Morloth was standing resolutely cross-armed in front of Faramir's door, and Denethor seemed equally determined to prevail.

He approached Denethor, who appeared to have just noticed his presence. "Denethor," he said soothingly, placing his hand lightly on the Steward's arm, "the healers are in agreement that it would be best for Faramir if he remains here for now. Surely it would do no harm to wait until the arrow has been removed to take him to the Citadel."

Denethor shook off his brother-in-law's hand and gave him a cold look, "Why are you here, Imrahil? This does not concern you," he said brusquely.

The Prince felt his face heat, "It was _I_ who carried Faramir from the field of battle, and brought him here afterward. I could do no less for my own sister's son," he added evenly, struggling to keep his own temper in check.

Before Denethor could reply, another voice was heard, "And we are very grateful for your solicitude, Uncle." It was Boromir, striding briskly in the door from the ward with the halfing Pippin close behind. "Are we not, _Father_?" he demanded with an acid glance at the Steward.

Morloth relaxed, visibly relieved at his presence, and gave him a welcoming smile which was warmly returned.

"Yes, of course," Denethor replied sourly, sounding not the least grateful, or pleased with his elder son's intervention. "Be that as it may," he continued in a hard voice, "My son belongs with me. Warden, I will need men to carry him to the Citadel."

"My lord," the Warden sputtered, "surely not!"

Morloth gave Boromir a look of mute appeal, but from the expression on his nephew's face Imrahil could tell it was not necessary.

"Father!" Boromir said sharply, glaring down at his father. "If you will not defer to the healers' judgment in this matter, I insist that you speak to me—alone." His eyes never leaving the Steward, he asked quietly, "Morloth, is there someone nearby that we may discuss this in private?"

"Of…of course, Boro—my lord. Several of the rooms on this corridor are unoccupied. You may use any of them."

Denethor's jaw tightened, but he muttered, "Very well then," in agreement, though with no good grace.

His son turned to Imrahil and smiled, "Thank you for your assistance, Uncle. You both have been in the saddle all day; I'm sure you'd like an opportunity to rest and break your fast."

"I must confess that would be quite welcome," Imrahil sighed. He met his nephew's eyes, "You know where to find me if you need me."

Boromir nodded, "Indeed I do." He clasped arms with both his uncle and cousin, "Again, thank you both. Hopefully Faramir will be ready for visitors soon."

"I will pray that it is so," the Prince said earnestly. He nodded toward the Steward, and murmured, "Your servant, Denethor," in a cool voice before departing.

-ooo-

Morloth showed the Boromir and his father to an empty room near Faramir's, and as soon as the door closed behind her, the Steward rounded on his son.

"I know what you want—to let that _woman_ of yours tend Faramir," he sneered. "As if I would consent to such a thing!"

"The healers agree that it would be best if he stayed—you would let your petty hatred endanger him?" Boromir snorted contemptuously, "I should have expected no less from the man who sent him on the fool's errand that nearly cost him his life. _You_ are the reason he lies wounded—why should I give you another opportunity to finish what you have started?"

"Because he is my son, and now I clearly see that he is my only true, loyal son!" Denethor thundered. "'Wizard's pupil' I called him, never suspecting that you, my favored son, my _heir_, would be the one to betray me to that cursed wizard!"

"Don't speak to me of betrayal, old man," Boromir countered, his voice hard. "I have ever been loyal to you and to Gondor, and you have repaid that trust with treachery, simply because I wished to protect my brother from your mad schemes. No more!" he cried, his eyes blazing. "Time and time again you have worked to divide us, striven to make us rivals for your affection. You could not separate us then and you will not now. You will _not_ take Faramir from me!"

Denethor shook his head, "See how the wizard has twisted your mind—you believe that I am capable of harming your brother." His voice changed, his tone pleading, "It is not too late, son, for the three of us to be a family again, and for you to prove your loyalty to me. Mithrandir and that woman have filled your head with lies…"

Boromir stared at his father scornfully, "They name you far-seeing and wise, but you know nothing of your own son. Twice Mithrandir's intervention has saved Faramir's life and countless others while you sit locked in the tower lost in your own imaginings. I judge by actions, Father, and yours have been found _wanting_."

For a moment Denethor's face worked with barely concealed fury. "You dare!" he cried. He reined in his anger and his face closed, "No matter. I am his father, and _I_ command here. You cannot gainsay me."

Boromir straightened and met his father's eyes coolly, "I can and I will. Faramir stays here, in Morloth's care, or Uncle Imrahil and the rest of the Council will learn of your treatment of me and your other…questionable activities."

Denethor snorted derisively, "You know nothing; you can _prove_ nothing."

"Indeed?" Boromir asked, one eyebrow raised, "How many of your lackeys know that I was carried senseless from your quarters? Are you certain none of them could be persuaded to tell what they know to save their own skins? There is also Mithrandir, who found me in drugged sleep when I was last seen going to your quarters. _You_ may despise him, but he is widely trusted and respected, especially after his actions of the last few days. His word will not be lightly dismissed."

"That is not enough to discredit me," his father said dismissively.

Boromir shrugged, "By itself, perhaps not. But coupled with your other peculiar actions in recent days: your unwillingness to summon aid from Rohan, the hours you spend locked in the tower, speaking to no one while men fight and die for you… People will begin to wonder, and question," he leaned close to his father's ear, "and _whisper_ that all is not what it should be, that the Steward has been acting very strangely of late. I think you will find many ready to believe."

"Curse you!" Denethor cried. "You would threaten your own father?"

"If I must to protect my brother, without hesitation," Boromir replied calmly. "Now you know the price for my silence—Faramir stays with me, cared for here, and you will not attempt to move him again." He met his father's eyes, "What say you?"

Denethor gazed at his son for a long moment, then growled, "Keep your brother then, but you will regret making me your enemy."

Boromir chuckled mirthlessly, "I said precisely that when I awoke yesterday and realized what you had done to me."

His father made a disgusted noise swept out of the room without another word. He passed through the corridor beyond with a single scornful look at Morloth and stormed away with his guards in his wake, leaving Morloth and Boromir alone.

Morloth stared at Boromir, eyes wide, "He…he is gone? He is not taking Faramir?" At Boromir's weary nod, she rushed to embrace him, "You have done it, Boromir! Oh, am I so relieved!"

Boromir gratefully pulled her close, "Yes, it is done." He sighed, "I hope that the price will not prove to be too high."

"Price?" Morloth asked, bewildered. "What do you mean?"

He smiled reassuringly at her, "I will explain later, dear lady. How is Faramir?" he asked anxiously.

"His condition is unchanged." She shook her head, "It is fortunate we can now proceed with the arrow extraction, I was concerned it would be further delayed if your father prevailed." She met his eyes, "He will need to be held still while I work; the aides can assist, they are accustomed to such tasks. But I also believe you may also be of help, for it may soothe him to hear your voice."

"Of course, Morloth, when do you want to begin?"

"Immediately, if possible. I had him prepared while you were speaking to your father." She hesitated a moment, then laid a hand on Boromir's arm, "There is something you should see, the aide found it when undressing Faramir." She handed a piece of parchment to him then added, "It is a message from you…it seems ordinary enough, but he obviously thought it was important since it was tucked inside his tunic."

A glance told Boromir that it was what he suspected—the note he had sent Faramir the day before. He tried to keep his features even, but Morloth was not deceived.

"What is it, Boromir, is something wrong?" she asked anxiously.

"Oh no, nothing of that sort," he murmured in reply. He felt his face heat, "You'll think it foolish, but when I replied to a report from Faramir I signed it with a special symbol, one he should recognize from our childhood." He showed her the bear glyph and added sheepishly, "I wanted to assure him that I didn't and wouldn't abandon him, though it might have seemed that I had."

Morloth smiled, "I don't think it the least bit foolish, Boromir! Faramir must have recognized it and understood what you meant, for he kept the note close to his heart."

"I just hope he can find a way to forgive me for failing him, however unintentionally," Boromir said glumly.

"I would not be surprised if he has forgiven you already," she said reassuringly. "He knows that you love him."

With that, she led him into Faramir's room and showed him how he could assist her. Two burly aides joined them to hold Faramir still while Morloth did what was needed. As she predicted, Boromir's presence seemed to help; his brother thrashed and cried out when Morloth began probing for the arrowhead, but quieted when Boromir held his hand and spoke soothingly to him.

A half-glass later it was done and Boromir was examining the arrowhead. "This looks like a Southron bolt," he told Morloth. "Do you think it might be poisoned? The Haradrim scum are known for that."

Morloth shook her head, "It's too early to know for certain, but I've seen no sign of it. We'll keep an eye on the wound it case it festers, but if it doesn't, Faramir should awaken soon."

"Thank you, dear lady," Boromir said, smiling warmly at her. "I will leave him in your capable hands for now." He sighed, "The siege has begun in earnest now so my time will not be my own, but I will come to see him—and you—as often as I can."

She met his eyes, her face troubled, "Boromir, before you go, could you explain what you meant earlier when you said that you hoped the price for keeping Faramir here would not be too high?"

He glanced around warily, and though they were alone, he pulled her into the empty room that he and Denethor had used for their conversation earlier. "I…I made a choice, and I pray that it was the correct one," he told her, rubbing his eyes distractedly. "But I do not see how I could have made any other!"

"What is it, Boromir?" she asked apprehensively, catching his hand in hers.

"I told my father that unless he left Faramir here, in your care, I would reveal to my uncle and others on the Council that he dosed me with the sleeping draught, and about his other questionable activities." Boromir's shoulders slumped, "As you can see it worked as I had wished, but it means as long as he abides by our agreement I cannot in good conscience use his actions as evidence against him, no matter how irrationally he behaves. And what's worse, I gave my word to Imrahil that if we survive the siege I would tell him what has happened between my father and myself. How can I do that now without being foresworn?

"By Eru, there was no good choice in this! It tears my heart to admit it, but after these last few days I simply do not trust my father with Faramir's life or well-being. If he disappeared into the Citadel in my father's 'care', I greatly fear I would have never seen him alive again."

Boromir chuckled ruefully, "The final irony is that although I would have done as I threatened and told my uncle about Father's treatment of me if hadn't agreed to leave Faramir with us, I am far from confident that would be enough to discredit my father. Uncle Imrahil would believe me and support me, of that I am certain, but the other members of the Steward's Council have never shown much backbone when it comes to opposing my father's will. But I know my father hates having his word questioned, and as I hoped the suggestion that there might be inquiries into his actions of late was enough to make him acquiesce."

"Boromir," Morloth began hesitantly. "I did not tell you this before since speaking about your father's treatment of you upsets you so, but I found something that might be of help to you—a page from the restricted potions log." She met his eyes, "It seems that Narion, your father's healer, signed out a dose of sleeping draught on the very day that you left to speak to the Steward about Faramir's orders to retake Osgiliath."

He stared at her, eyes wide, then swore under his breath before pulling her into his arms, "Morloth, you are a wonder! It still may not be enough to convince all of the Council, but that is evidence my father will find difficult to refute, especially if Narion is willing to admit he acquired the potion at Father's request."

"I think he may be, Boromir; both his behavior today and the fact that he signed the log at all suggest that he did not know how it was to be used, and has not been taken into your father's confidence on these matters."

Boromir sighed, "I still cannot use it while Father keeps to our agreement, but it heartens me to know that such proof exists." His voice softened and he caught Morloth's chin in his hand, "But enough of my father's schemes for now. I am glad we have this time together; such moments of pleasure have been far too rare of late. Morloth, I…I cannot forsee whether Gondor will survive the next few days, we can only endure and pray that Rohan comes to our aid."

"When might they come?" Morloth asked leaning against Boromir's chest for comfort.

He shrugged, "If nothing has delayed them, tomorrow at the earliest. But it could be days or not at all; no word has reached us from Rohan since the beacons were lit. However, a courier could have been intercepted by the enemy, so that may mean nothing.

"But come what may, I want you to know, dear lady, that if there is a future for Minas Tirith there will be a future for the two of us as well. I love you, Morloth, and my father will _not_ separate us; that I vow."

"I love you too, Boromir," Morloth whispered. "I…I am sorry I have not said so before now."

Boromir's lips quirked into a smile, but his eyes were alight with joy, "Am I that hard to love, my lady?"

Morloth snorted in amusement, "You are all too easy to love, Boromir, as you are well aware." Her voice fell, "After Bregor died I was so certain that I would never love again that I…I think it frightened me to realize how much you mean to me."

"You, the lady who just defied my ogre of a father?" he scoffed, his face merry. "No, as is the case too often, you fail to give yourself the credit you deserve." His hand cradled her chin and he bent to kiss her.

"I'm not frightened _now_, Boromir!" she said in exasperation, though no one could mistake the affection in her voice. She twined her hands around his neck and their lips met for a long and lingering kiss.

Boromir released her reluctantly, "That must sustain me for now, I fear. But take heart, my love, now that I have found you, not even the Dark Lord can keep us apart for long."


	20. Chapter 20

_Sorry that this has taken a little longer than usual...but hopefully it's worth the wait!_

_As you can no doubt tell, the end of this chapter is another case where I decided to use the book sequence of events rather than the movie's. It's just so much cooler and more dramatic, and gives Gandalf a chance to show his stuff. Enjoy! _

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Chapter 20

It took several hours for the Dark Lord's armies to fill the plain below the city. Late the night after Faramir's return his brother gazed out over the sea of enemies on the Pelennor and felt his heart sink. They must endure, but how _could_ they against the overwhelming forces arrayed against them? And if Boromir was feeling this way, what must the men be thinking? He squared his shoulders and turned to Beregond, announcing, "Come, it is time to tour the walls again."

"Yes, my lord," the guardsman replied, and fell in step behind him. There was a roar from the enemy as their catapults, finally in range of the walls, let fly. Gondor's catapults answered, sending their missiles out far over the plain. The battle was joined.

-ooo-

Over the next few hours the pace of the battle quickened. The enemy catapults were ineffective in breaching the outer walls or the gate and so were limited to damaging those areas they could reach on the upper levels. Gondor had a distinct advantage in artillery, placed as they were high above the enemy meant the range of their catapults was far greater. In addition, the massed formation of the Sauron's forces also sustained much more damage from the exchange of missiles than the widely distributed Gondorians.

When midday came with little change in the status of the siege, Boromir began to feel cautiously optimistic about their ability to withstand the assault until Rohan arrived. He was contemplating taking time to visit the Houses of Healing to check on Faramir's condition and consequently not giving his complete attention to his surroundings, so he was startled when Beregond suddenly cried, "Down, my lord!"

The next moment he was thrown face down against the flagstones as the guardsman covered his Captain-General's body with his own. Boromir's wounded chest exploded in a blaze of agony. There was a thin wailing screech deafeningly close above them, and a blast of air washed over them, carrying the foul reek of one of the Nazgûl's flying beasts. His pain forgotten, Boromir's heart clenched in fear when realized the reason for Beregond's alarm.

The wraith cried again, further away this time, a note of frustration in its fearsome voice. After a moment Beregond stood and offered his hand to Boromir, saying, "I believe it is gone, my lord."

Boromir groaned and rolled to his back, struggling to sit up despite the throbbing in his chest. "My lord!" Beregond cried, his face drawn with worry, "You are injured?"

Boromir smiled ruefully, "Morloth never specifically warned me against being thrown to the ground and squashed flat beneath a rather large guardsman, but I can now confidently say that she would not recommend it."

Beregond flushed, "My apologies, my lord, I saw the wraith coming and feared…"

"I doubt that any real damage was done," Boromir replied, waving off his apology, "and it would be churlish indeed for me to chastise you for saving my life. A sore chest is a small price to pay considering the alternative."

Gandalf hurried up to them and had obviously seen what had happened. "Well, that was much too close for my liking," he said, shaking his head. He met the guardsman's eyes, "Well done, Beregond."

"Thank you, Mithrandir," Beregond muttered, sounding subdued. "But I fear I injured Lord Boromir."

"Hmm, Boromir, I think it best if you let Morloth examine you in case treatment is required," Gandalf said firmly. "That will also give us the opportunity to devise a means of preventing further attempts of this type."

Beregond and Gandalf helped Boromir to stand. "Very well," he agreed reluctantly. "I feel it is unnecessary for my sake, but at least I can see my brother."

"Give my best to your lady as well," Gandalf said with a knowing smile.

Boromir snorted in acknowledgement and after refusing Beregond's offer to find a mount for him, began the long walk to the sixth level.

Morloth's face lit when they arrived in her ward, but she gasped in dismay when she saw how stiffly Boromir was moving. "My lord, what happened?" she exclaimed.

The two men exchanged a glance, both hesitant to distress her. Finally, Boromir sighed, "One of the Nazgûl's winged beasts tried to take me, but thankfully Beregond saw it coming in time and was able to keep me out of its grasp."

She paled, "A ringwraith?"

He took her hand and squeezed it comfortingly, "Gandalf has something in mind to prevent it from happening again."

"I'm afraid Lord Boromir's injury is my fault," Beregond said regretfully. "In my haste I was not as careful as I should have been."

Boromir snorted, "I assure you I am not too inclined to criticize."

Morloth took a calming breath and met his eyes, "Let us see what damage has been done."

After a thorough—and painful—examination of Boromir's chest she announced, "You are fortunate, my lord. Your wounds bled a little and there is extensive bruising, but no ribs are broken. I need only rebandage your wounds; you will be stiff and sore for a time, but it should pass in a few days."

Beregond looked visibly relieved and Boromir smiled warmly at the healer, "My thanks, dear lady. But what news of Faramir? May I see him?"

Morloth's face fell, "Of course you may see him, Boromir. But…he has not yet regained consciousness as I had hoped."

Boromir drew in his breath sharply, "What is wrong, Morloth? What could it be?"

She shook her head uncertainly, "I wish I knew, Boromir, that is why I am concerned. His wound is healing well and there is no sign that it is poisoned or festering. But despite that he is fevered and has not awakened."

"What can you do?" Boromir asked urgently, his face drawn and anxious. "If there is aught _I_ can do, please tell me, I will do it!"

"There is no reason for alarm yet," Morloth said reassuringly. "He is strong and there is still time for him to recover and wake on his own. But it can only help for you to spend time with him and speak to him—perhaps hearing your voice will encourage him to awaken."

Morloth quickly redressed Boromir's wounds and helped him into his tunic before leading him to his brother's room. Faramir's face was pale and he was stirring restlessly on the bed; it wrung Boromir's heart to see him so. He sat next to the bed and briefly touched his brother's too-warm brow before sighing and taking Faramir's hand in his own.

"Fara," he murmured, "I know I failed you. I promised to prevent this and could not." He shook his head ruefully, "I was a fool to underestimate father's deviousness despite your warnings. But please believe me that it was not a failure of will, or of my love for you. I would change places with you in an instant, if I could!" he said fiercely, his voice breaking. "I just hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me."

Faramir did not wake, but he calmed and turned toward the sound of his brother's voice. Boromir was startled by a hand his shoulder; he looked up to see Morloth smiling down at him. "Do you think he heard me, Morloth?" he asked earnestly.

"He may not have understood all you said, but I'm certain he recognized your voice and is comforted by your presence," she told him soothingly.

Boromir stood and pulled her into his arms, "Take care of him, my love. I must return to my post, but I will come back when I can." He met her eyes, "Please send a message if his condition changes."

"I will, Boromir," she assured him.

When Boromir reached his command post, he found Gandalf and Prince Imrahil deep in conversation. Standing nearby was a squad of archers, many of which he recognized as Ithilien Rangers.

"Ah, there you are, Boromir," Gandalf greeted him as he approached. "You are well?"

Boromir nodded, "It was nothing serious—bruising and the like. What goes on here?"

"We believe we have found a way to dissuade the wraiths from making a further attempt on your life," Gandalf explained. "These men," he said, indicating the group of soldiers, "were identified as the most skilled archers in Gondor. They will be stationed here, and although they cannot harm the Nazgûl, a flight of arrows should teach their beasts the value of discretion."

"We cannot take these men from the walls to protect one man!" Boromir protested. "I have to risk myself as all must in this battle."

Imrahil spoke for the first time, "Boromir, you have made yourself a particular target—for good reason—but a target nonetheless. However, the enemy surely knows how it would affect the morale of Gondor's defenders to see you taken. They _will_ try again and we must protect you."

"Prince Imrahil and I are in agreement on this, Boromir," Gandalf said in an uncompromising tone. "Do not let pride lead you to imperil yourself to no purpose."

Boromir glanced from the wizard to his uncle and back again. Both met his eyes implacably; it was clear they would not be swayed on this point. He sighed and shook his head. "If you insist," he growled, "though I am certain it is not the best use of these men."

"Good," Gandalf said briskly. "Then I will leave you to your work."

Boromir gazed out over the plain and swore. Several large siege towers were visible; pushed by enormous armored trolls they were rapidly approaching the outer wall.

Imrahil followed his eyes. "Yes, they appeared a short while ago," he affirmed. "We have directed the catapults to target them as soon as they are in range."

His nephew nodded in agreement, and after a brief discussion Gandalf and Imrahil set off to rally the troops on the first level who would have to repel the siege towers. Boromir paced impatiently and watched the towers move closer as the catapults boomed overhead.

Unexpectedly, Beregond spoke, "They're right, you know, my lord."

Boromir looked at him quizzically and the guardsman explained, "Mithrandir and the Prince—they're right that it's important for you to be protected, and not just because you're the Lord Steward's son. I hear the men talking, it…it heartens them to look up and see you here and know that you stand with them. To have one of those creatures take you," he shuddered, "would seem like the enemy had stolen the very heart of Gondor."

Boromir stared at him for a long moment, then chuckled wryly. "I would never have taken you for a fanciful man, Beregond. But thank you. For that and for earlier. Your courage and quick thinking will not be forgotten."

"Thank you my lord," Beregond muttered, red-faced, and together they waited for the siege towers to arrive.

-ooo-

The battle raged on, intensifying further as the day neared its end. Several waves of towers had been destroyed and the walls held, though not without casualties they could ill afford. Twice more the Nazgûl had struck at Boromir, only to be driven off by the archers stationed near him. Boromir had reluctantly accepted the need for it, but it was heartbreaking to see the wraiths carry away other defenders who had no such protection.

Pippin appeared at nightfall, resplendent in his guard uniform, and reported that Morloth was well and that there had been no change in Faramir's condition. The hobbit leaned against the parapet next to his friend and gazed out over the battlefield, his face uncharacteristically somber.

"When should they come, Boromir?" he asked quietly.

"Rohan? I wish I could say, Pippin," Boromir said, resting his hand on Pippin's shoulder. "We are bearing up well so far, but who knows what other devilry Sauron has in store for us."

Pippin sighed, "I can't help but think of Merry, and Strider, and all our other friends. Where are they now, and when will we see them again?"

Boromir nodded, "Aye, I think of them too, Pippin." His eyes strayed east and his hand tightened on Pippin's shoulder, not needing words to express his feelings for their two friends who carried all their hopes and fears on their small shoulders.

He straightened, "You are on duty soon, are you not, Pippin?"

"Yes," Pippin answered, making a face, "in the Citadel, and I doubt very much your father will be pleased to see me."

"He would enjoy my presence even less, I'd wager," Boromir said, smiling down at his friend. "Come by if you can when you're off duty, Pippin. Your company is always welcome here."

"It's nice that someone enjoys it," the hobbit replied with an impish grin as he headed toward the fourth level. "I was beginning to feel unappreciated!"

As Boromir feared, late that night the Dark Lord's forces unveiled their mightiest weapon, one they had held in reserve until all other efforts to breach the wall had failed. 'Grond' it was named, an immense battering ram shaped like a ravening wolf, flame spewing from its open mouth. It was pulled by huge horned beasts the like of which he had never seen. Archers targeted them as soon they came into range, but to no avail; arrows would not penetrate their thick hides. Earlier, an unsuccessful attempt had been made to destroy the gate with a smaller ram, but Boromir watched Grond approach with consternation. When it was in place armored mountain trolls made ready to swing it against the gate.

Gandalf was standing with Boromir at his command post; they exchanged glances as the first stroke of Grond fell against the gate with a thunderous boom.

"Is all ready?" Gandalf asked quietly.

Boromir nodded, his face grim. "Yes, all have been cleared from the first level except those manning the barricades. Anyone who can draw a bow is stationed along the wall on the second level. They may breach the main gate, but we will make them pay in blood for every foot inside the city."

The wizard nodded, "Good, but it will not be enough."

"I know," Boromir sighed. "Given enough time they can break through the second level gate as well. We must try to delay them as long as possible and pray that the Rohirrim arrive in time."

"The enemy has another weapon, one that may be our undoing," Gandalf told him, his brows furrowed in concern. "Look!" He pointed to a figure approaching Grond from behind; a rider on a black horse, robed in black. "I have felt the Witch-King's presence for some time; I am certain he will want to be the first through the gate to claim his 'prize'." Gandalf said, shaking his head, "The men are brave, but they cannot stand against him."

Boromir's heart clenched. "What…what can we do?" He asked, his face pale. Then he took a deep breath to steady himself and straightened his shoulders. "I will take a squad of volunteers to face him—our best men…"

"No, Boromir," Gandalf said softly. "This is not your task. It is mine."

"But…" Boromir said urgently, "You are needed!"

Gandalf's bushy eyebrows rose, "And you are not?" He met the other man's eyes and laid a hand on his shoulder, "It was for this I was sent back, Boromir, and you have your own duties. Shadowfax and I must meet this foe."

Boromir gazed at him for a long moment and finally nodded, "As you wish, Gandalf."

While they were speaking Grond had thundered against the gate over and over, accompanied by the chanting of Sauron's hordes. The next stroke that battered the gate was different in tone, and a loud cry went up from the enemy. It was clear to all that the gates were damaged and would not hold for much longer.

"They sense victory," Boromir said bitterly.

"Then let us prove them wrong," Gandalf replied with a brisk nod. He turned to Shadowfax, waiting patiently nearby. He mounted quickly and started toward the main gate.

"Eru protect you, Gandalf!" Boromir called.

"And the blessings of the Valar upon you, Boromir, and all those who stand with you." Gandalf replied in a clear voice that could easily be heard by the men nearby.

"Hail the White Rider!" Boromir called, and the cry was taken up by the men along the walls as Gandalf rode by toward the gate.

So it was that Gandalf and Shadowfax faced Sauron's most fearsome general alone. Grond continued to batter the gate, weakening it as each blow fell. They stood quietly, waiting as the gate cracked under the onslaught. As the ram was readied for what would be the final stroke, there was an eerie, wavering cry that chilled hearers to the marrow. Grond swung again, and the mighty doors shivered and fell splintered to the earth.

Boromir fought against despair as he watched the Lord of the Nazgul ride in, a great veil of blackness surrounding him. Gandalf and Shadowfax waited silently, their light a beacon against the darkness. As the Witch-King passed through the archway leading into the city where no enemy had ever before entered, Gandalf cried out in a strong voice, "You may not enter here. Go back to the abyss that awaits you and your master. Go!"

The dark figure halted, but his cloak of darkness expanded, and seemed to reach to engulf the figures facing him. The ringwraith gave an evil chuckle and rasped out, "Old man, old _fool_; you cannot thwart me—this is my hour. You will die now and curse in vain!" He lifted up his sword and flames ran down the blade.

Gandalf sat on Shadowfax, unmoved and unmoving, while both sides in the conflict seemed to hold their breaths. Boromir started at an unexpected sound; somewhere above him a cock crowed, high and shrill. Knowing nothing of weapons or war, it simply greeted the dawn that it felt breaking above Sauron's gloom. Then another sound was heard—horns, their calls clear and stirring, far different than the horns used by the Dark Lord's armies. Boromir looked up to see rank after rank of horsemen filling the horizon to the north, banners held proudly above them showing a white horse on a field of green. He leaned against the parapet, his head bowed, weak with relief. Rohan had come at last.


	21. Chapter 21

_My most sincere apology for the *extremely* long wait between chapters this time; a number of Real Life things caused the delay, plus I'm finding this section of the story to be quite challenging to write. I just want to assure you all that I have no plans to abandon the story, and will do my best not to have such a long gap between chapters next time._

_I also hope you don't mind that this chapter takes a break from the siege for a bit; as you may recall, something else rather important was happening at the same time..._

_EDIT: a minor change to make this chapter more consistent with the book and with subsequent chapters._

* * *

Chapter 21

Morloth sank gratefully into the chair in front of the Warden's desk. He gazed at her thoughtfully, "You can find no reason for the fever, you say?"

"That's correct," Morloth affirmed with a weary nod. "He had just the one arrow wound, and it is healing well. I would think it some kind of illness, but there are no obvious signs of it—and I can't inquire about other symptoms because he's still unconscious."

The Warden nodded, "That is also a worry, I take it?"

"Indeed. I can find no cause of either the fever or the unconsciousness, which makes it all doubly baffling!"

"I can see how that would be. The only thing similar we've seen recently is 'The Black Shadow'," the Warden said with a shudder, "among those who have endured close contact with…" his voice fell, "the Nazgûl."

Morloth nodded grimly, "Yes, I have lost several patients to that malady as well. But those patients grow cold and still before succumbing. None that I know of have been fevered like Lord Faramir."

"I know," the Warden sighed. "I wish I had more counsel to give. What will you try next?"

"I am treating the fever, of course, and I was also hoping that the presence of Lord Boromir would spur him to awaken. But his brother has other pressing duties at the moment," she noted wryly, "and cannot spend much time with his brother, though I know he would wish to. I can only do my best to keep him alive until the siege is lifted."

"As time permits, Morloth, I will search the archives to see if I can find anything that might be of use," the Warden said, giving her a comforting pat on the hand.

"I would be most grateful for that, sir," Morloth told him as she got up to leave. She made her way back to the ward with both her mind and her heart aching.

The ward was quiet for the moment, but she knew it was a temporary calm; more casualties could arrive at any moment as they had throughout the seemingly endless siege. Morloth approached Randir, the healer she had asked to watch her patients, favoring him with a smile that she did not feel. He had never been especially friendly to her, and she strongly suspected that he resented that another healer—and a _woman_—had been given more responsibility than he had.

"All is well?" Morloth asked pleasantly.

"Hmph," Randir replied, "well enough. The patient in bed four was restless earlier, but he's fallen asleep now. Oh, and one other thing," he added as if it was an afterthought, though it was apparent to Morloth that he was quite eager to tell her. "The Lord Steward sent his men to take Lord Faramir to the Citadel. Sorry you missed it," he said with a smug smile.

She stared at him in disbelief for a moment before stepping close and glaring angrily down at him. Morloth knew from previous encounters that her height made him uncomfortable, but she no longer had any patience with his insecurities. "What?!" she cried, tempted to grab his tunic front and shake the answers out of him. "You let them take him? Why didn't you inform me? You knew I was in the Warden's office!"

He stepped back, alarmed by her tone and the look on her face. "They…they were the Steward's men, and Lord Faramir is his son. Why would you need to know that they were taking him?"

"Because he is _my_ patient, and _my_ responsibility, you blithering fool. Lord Boromir gave strict instructions that his brother was to stay here, in my care!"

"But…but…" Randir sputtered. "They were the Lord Steward's men!"

Realizing that trying to explain further was pointless, she rolled her eyes and demanded curtly, "Which way did they go?"

"Out the main ward door," he shrugged helplessly, "I didn't see them after that."

"Stay here," Morloth ordered. Then, giving him one last cold glance, she said, "You had best pray his brother comes to no harm, or you will have to answer to Lord Boromir—and to _me_."

Leaving him to ponder which prospect was the more alarming, she made her way back to the Warden's office to explain what had occurred. After giving him a quick summary of events, she continued, "I…I wish I could tell you why this development is so disquieting, but I can only ask that you trust my judgment. Lord Boromir _must_ be told. He will want to know, though it is doubtful that he will be able to take time to challenge his father at the present time."

The Warden nodded, "Go on then, we can spare you at the moment."

Before she could reach the main exit from the Houses, the door opened and stretcher bearers carrying more casualties began pouring in. She glanced despairingly at the Warden, who had followed her out of his office. He gave her a reassuring smile, "Go. We will take care of this."

She returned his smile thankful for his understanding, and in a moment she was outside, the darkness lit only by the torches at the House entrance and fires on the battlefield below. Morloth started toward the gate to the fifth level, but quickly paused. She was certain that it was no coincidence that the Steward's men had come when she was away from the ward; that suggested a guileful hand guiding their actions. Denethor would be expected to order them to return to the Citadel with Faramir, but what if he chose _not_ to do what was expected? If only she was more confident that she knew where they were going!

She glanced around the expanse of the sixth level she could see, but nothing was out of place. Then her eyes were drawn to the faint glimmer of torches near where the city met the slopes of Mount Mindolluin. Morloth stopped for a moment and looked again, puzzled. Why would anyone be approaching the Rath Dínen now, in the middle of the night? Before she could decide whether to investigate further, a stealthy movement caught her eye, a small figure flitting from shadow to shadow, bare feet silent on the flagstones. He appeared to be following the line of torches.

Morloth's eyes widened and she moved to intercept the figure—there was only one person it could be! She caught up to him just as he was about to dash from one concealing shadow to another, and he did not hear her approach. She tapped him on the shoulder and hissed, "Pippin, wait!" as quietly as she could.

Pippin gave a loud gasp and turned to her, his face pale, one hand clutching his chest, "Oh Morloth, you nearly scared the life from me! But thank heaven you're here, they've got Faramir!"

"I know, they came for him when I was away from the ward," her lips thinned, the memory still bitter. "But how do you know about it, and how did you come to be here?"

"I was on duty in the Citadel," Pippin explained, "and about halfway through my duty shift Lord Denethor came down from the Tower." The hobbit shook his head, "Very odd he looked, gray and bent, with a fell light in his eyes. He called for the leader of his guards and gave him some instructions, but I was too far away to hear what was said," Pippin added ruefully.

"After that, he just sat in his chair, muttering to himself but speaking to no one else. Every once in a while he'd cry out in a loud voice…let me tell you, it gave me quite a turn the first time it happened! Finally, his guard chief returned to report something—whatever it was, it pleased the Steward mightily; he laughed—" Pippin shuddered, "it was not a happy laugh—and made ready to leave. Then his eyes fell on me as if it was the first time he noticed I was there, and he said, 'You, Master Took, may go.'

"I was quite surprised—my duty shift wasn't quite over, you see—so I asked him, 'Is there anything else you need from me, my Lord?' He looked at me, his eyes fever-bright, and says, 'Nothing from you or from anyone. Do you not know? We have failed; the West has failed. Go now, and die in what way seems best to you!'

"Well, Morloth, as you can imagine I didn't like the sound of that at all! So I went as ordered, but waited nearby out of sight to see what he would do. He and his guards left the seventh level and came here, and shortly after they arrived more of his men brought Faramir out on a stretcher. You know the rest."

"I was going to tell Boromir what had happened when I saw you. Is that Denethor and his men?" Morloth asked, nodding toward the torches in the distance. At Pippin's assent, she said, "We should follow, but…" she added, her face troubled, "it makes no sense!"

"What do you mean, Morloth?" Pippin replied as they started after the torches. "None of this really makes sense, I agree, but…"

"The only thing in this direction is the Rath Dínen, The Silent Street. But why would they be going _there_?" she asked plaintively. Then she stilled. "No…" she whispered, her unease growing stronger by the moment.

"Well, what is it?"

She met his eyes, "It leads to the tombs of the Kings and Stewards of Gondor, Pippin."

Pippin gasped in alarm, "Faramir! Do you think…"

Morloth shook her head firmly, "No, he was fevered but still strong when I left him. There's no reason to think he would have died suddenly. Besides, Randir might be a vain idiot, but he would surely have told me if Faramir had taken a turn for the worse while I was gone. I am certain he was alive when they took him from the Houses."

"But then why…" Pippin began, looking as perplexed as Morloth felt. "You're right, it makes no sense. We have to find out what Denethor is doing with Faramir."

While they were speaking the group with the torches passed through a sturdy door set into a stone wall, and the door closed firmly behind them.

"I agree wholeheartedly," Morloth told him, "but first we have to get through that door. That is the only entrance to the Rath Dínen, and it's called the Closed Door because it's always locked and guarded."

"What are we going to do?" Pippin asked, his eyes wide.

She sighed, "If necessary, we can bring Boromir here, no doubt he could convince the guard to open it. But that would take time we may not have…so," she met Pippin's eyes, "I propose that we try to talk our way in."

"Right!" Pippin said with a firm nod, "Let's try it."

With some trepidation they made their way toward the gate guard, a dour man who eyed them warily as they approached.

Morloth greeted the guard with a nod and a pleasant, "Good evening," hoping that she projected more confidence than she felt. "I am Lord Faramir's healer," she continued, "the Lord Steward has sent for me to attend him."

"Did he?" the guard replied with an appraising look. "He said nothing to _me_ of that sort. On the contrary, he told me no one else was to be admitted."

She cursed to herself, feeling rather aggrieved at Denethor's precaution. "It must have slipped his mind. But as you can see, I am accompanied by a Guard of the Citadel," she said with a gesture toward Pippin, still dressed in his Guard livery.

"Huh," the man responded skeptically, giving Pippin a dismissive look, "seems awfully small for a Guard."

Morloth firmly suppressed a smile at Pippin's affronted expression and hurried to draw the guard's attention lest Pippin say something impetuous. "Nonetheless, sir," she began, and the man turned back toward her. But before she could marshal her arguments to be admitted, the guard let out a grunt of pain and he slumped to the ground, revealing Pippin with his sword drawn and a fierce light in his eyes.

"Small!" he said indignantly, "I'll have you know that I'm the tallest Took since the Bullroarer!"

"Pippin!" Morloth exclaimed, 'what did you do?"

"Oh, he's not dead," the hobbit assured her, "I just hit him on the head with my sword hilt."

She huffed in exasperation, "Pippin, a blow to the head can kill a man as readily as a sword thrust!" She quickly bent and examined the man, letting out a sign of relief when she was finished. "You didn't crack his skull, thank Eru. He'll wake up a throbbing head, no doubt, but I don't believe any lasting harm was done."

"Oh, that's a relief, Morloth," Pippin said, a brief panicked look disappearing from his face. "I didn't mean to kill him, despite the fact he was very rude." He gave her a contrite smile, "Sorry about that, but it didn't seem that he was going to let us in."

"You may be right. But why," she asked wryly, "do I have the impression that you've wanted to do that since we talked our way into Boromir's room?"

"I don't know what you mean," Pippin replied with an air of injured innocence.

"Of course you don't," Morloth responded, rolling her eyes at her friend. "Come, let's move him move him out of sight. It will draw attention if we leave him here."

They pulled the unconscious guard into the shadows behind some decorative stonework, and cautiously approached the locked door with the key they had liberated from his person. The door opened into a short tunnel with an arched ceiling of stone, wide enough and high enough for a wagon and horses and to pass through. The end of the tunnel led to a flagged path that wound its way onto the mountain, lit by a few sputtering torches. No one was in sight, so the two cautiously followed the path to the end, a wide courtyard surrounded by a number of elaborately carved stone buildings; the tombs of the kings and stewards of Gondor.

Oppressed by the silence and the knowledge of what was housed around them, Pippin murmured, "Where now, Morloth?"

"I don't know, Pippin!" Morloth exclaimed softly, frustrated more by the situation than the hobbit's question. "I've certainly never been here before, and although my father told us tales of serving in the honor guard for the interment of Boromir's grandfather, the Steward Ecthelion, none of it is useful in this situation!"

"I don't think we need it to be," Pippin whispered urgently, gently tugging Morloth's arm. "Morloth, look!"

She followed his gesture toward the far side of the courtyard to see a stone door propped open. The light spilling out was no different than that of the torches ringing the area, so it took a sharp eye to see it.

"Oh, Pippin, that _must_ be where they've gone," the healer breathed, and without another word they hurried across the courtyard to the open door.

As they neared it they heard a raised voice echoing off the stone walls. Pippin cautiously glanced in the door and told Morloth quietly, "There's a short corridor that opens into a room, I think. No one is in sight." He met her eyes, his brow furrowed with uncertainty. "They're definitely inside, I recognize Denethor's voice. Should we risk it or fetch Boromir?"

"I…I feel I must know Faramir's condition before we report to Boromir. What if he has taken a turn for the worse and needs me?" she asked urgently.

Pippin nodded, "Yes, and it would be helpful to what they're up to—why would the Steward bring Faramir _here_?"

They crept along the corridor, Denethor voice becoming steadier clearer as they did so. His tone was louder and softer unpredictably, and even when she could hear him Morloth could not determine to whom he was speaking.

"The fools!" the Steward cried contemptuously, "they fight on; clinging to the vain hope that the horse-lords or that ragged Ranger will save them." His voice rose, "But I know better, I have _seen_ what is to come. Gondor has failed…the West has failed…"

Her attention was drawn away from Denethor by the sight of Faramir, still on the stretcher that had been used to carry him from the Houses, lying against one wall of the grim stone room. He was turning restlessly, his face flushed and covered in sweat, enough to tell her that his fever had spiked again as it had periodically since he had been brought in from the field the day before. Morloth let out a gasp of dismay and rushed across the room to kneel next to him.

Pippin hissed in alarm, "Morloth, wait!" as she left his side and she realized immediately how foolish she had been. But it was too late; she was in full view of the very surprised Steward and his uniformed guards.

There was a moment of shocked silence, then Denethor growled, "You! You dare come here? It is bad enough that you are my son's whore, but now he sets you to spy on me?"

Fortunately, Morloth realized in time that it would not be wise to refute his claim by telling him that Boromir had no idea she was there; instead, she met his eyes defiantly and said, "I am not here to spy, my lord. Your son is ill and needs my care!"

"Your _care_," he sneered, "an excuse for my traitorous elder son to keep Faramir from me! Boromir, whom I favored and showered with honors, has proven himself to be a treacherous dog! Now I know that it was Faramir that was my true, loyal son, always willing to honor me and do my bidding. You shall not take him from me again!"

"My lord," she pleaded, "surely you can see that Faramir needs a healer; if not me, then call for Narion. Your son is burning with fever!

"He burns, yes, and so shall we all soon burn," Denethor murmured, as much to himself as to her. When he glanced up and met her gaze again, the look in his eyes made her blood run cold. "Boromir and the others will find their deaths soon enough," he continued." But I will not die an ignoble death at the end of an orc's sword, nor will Faramir. A pyre, yes, we will burn like the heathen kings of old!"

The Steward seemed to realize where he was again and turned to address Morloth, a wild light in his eyes, "As I recall, the kings had maiden sacrifices to accompany them on their journey, and although you are no maiden," he noted scornfully, "you will do. Besides," he added with a grim smile, "Boromir needs to learn the cost of disloyalty."

Morloth was still frozen in horror, unable to believe what he was proposing, when Denethor met the eyes of the guard standing closest to her and ordered, "Seize her!" The guard caught her arm in a hard grip before she had a chance to move more than a step away. He gestured at two other guards and told them, "Go, gather wood and oil for the pyre. Let no one hinder you!"

She glanced surreptitiously toward Pippin, still concealed in the shadows of the doorway, silently willing him to flee before the men tasked to bring wood passed him in the corridor. Instead, he slipped into the room and hid behind a dour-looking sculpture just in time to avoid capture. She growled in frustration, why did he stay? If Pippin were caught no one could warn Boromir of his father's mad scheme!

Morloth's mind raced as she frantically considered her options. Her eyes fell on the guard still grasping her arm and she noted that it was the same man that had been posted at Boromir's door when they had found him drugged. She thought at the time he looked familiar, and now…

"Harnir!" she exclaimed softly. "Now I remember, your name is Harnir. My father brought you home to dinner one night when you were a new recruit. You must remember him…Menelgil? I was there as well; I was still living at home then."

The man paled and looked away to avoid meeting her eyes. "I…I remember him…and you," he whispered.

"Harnir," she pleaded, her voice low and intent, "you know this is not right. Lord Faramir is ill and needs a healer's care; I have done nothing but try to help him! The Steward means to _burn us alive_; how can you condone such a mad and evil plan!"

Harnir turned to look at her, his face anguished, "He is my Lord, and holds my sworn oath, how can I gainsay him?"

"No man thinking clearly would wish to burn to death his own son!" she told him urgently. "Can't you see that the pressures of the war and his son's illness have overset the Lord Steward's mind? Please, Harnir, let me fetch Lord Boromir and Prince Imrahil, they will put things right."

Morloth could see the indecision on his face, his conscience at war with his duty. Finally, he released her arm with a sigh. But before he could speak, Denethor's voice thundered, "Incompetent fool! Can you not control a single woman?" He pointed to one of the other guards, and ordered, "You! Assist him!"

Panicked, Harnir grabbed for Morloth's arm again but missed; she was moving already, determined to make the most of this opportunity. She made for the door as the second guard moved to intercept her. He may very well have caught her too, but Pippin chose that moment to dash out of hiding and shout, "Morloth, run!" A well-placed hobbit foot sent the guard sprawling on the stone floor, leaving the way clear for both Morloth and Pippin.

They sprinted down the hall and out into the cold night air, well ahead of any pursuit. It was only when they heard Denethor's gruff voice call back his men that they stopped, gasping for air and weak with relief.

"Peregrin Took," Morloth exclaimed, "I am extremely grateful for your assistance, but why didn't you leave when you had the chance? You could have found Boromir instead of risking yourself as well!"

Pippin cocked an eyebrow at her, "Are you suggesting that I should have gone to Boromir to report that I'd left you behind to be burned alive by his father?" He shook his head, "We Tooks are brave, but not _that_ brave!"

Morloth snorted a laugh, "I see what you mean."

Pippin sobered, "So what now, Morloth?"

She gave a brisk nod, "We find Boromir, and Mithandir too if we can, as quickly as possible."

Pippin returned the nod, "Right," and together they trotted off toward the fifth level gate.


	22. Chapter 22

_**A note to my readers:**__ As always, I am extremely gratified that you are all enjoying the story and eager for the next chapter. And for the record, I am quite committed to continuing it. However, for those of you expressing impatience that I'm updating too slowly, please keep a few things in mind. First of all, it takes me much, much longer to write a chapter than it does for you to read it. Secondly, this is something I do for enjoyment, when I have time not taken up with work or family life. Lastly, though I dearly love reviews, I find those saying why they like a chapter (or even how it could be improved) much more motivating than those simply exhorting me to update faster. So please, a little patience!_

_Hope you all enjoy the new chapter!_

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Chapter 22

Morloth and Pippin were known to the gate guards and passed through to the fifth level without comment, but as they ran through the darkness both became aware that something had changed. Over the days of the siege everyone in the city had become accustomed to the noise of the catapults and the roar of the battle below, which could be heard dimly even on the highest levels. Now they had fallen silent, and the only thing that could be heard was an odd, hollow boom that reverberated through the city.

"It's…it's so quiet," Pippin murmured to his companion.

"I know," Morloth replied, equally bewildered. "And what _is_ that sound?"

"Something has happened, that's for certain," Pippin commented. "Let's ask at the next guard station."

They did just that as they passed through the gate to the fourth level. The guard explained grimly, "That sound? It's the enemy's ram—they're trying to batter down the main gate."

Morloth gasped in alarm, "But the gate will hold, won't it?"

The guard shrugged, "We all pray so, my lady. If it doesn't…" he shook his head, "it could go badly for us."

Morloth and Pippin exchanged a worried look before continuing their journey. They were nearing Boromir's command post when the final stroke fell, accompanied by the ear-piercing shriek of the Witch-King. But moments later, a happy cry went up from the defenders, and Boromir turned to greet them with a light in his eyes and a broad smile on his face.

"Morloth, Pippin, they have come! Rohan has come!" he exclaimed. Overcome by the joy of the moment he pulled Morloth into his arms and kissed her soundly in full view of the men nearby.

A soldier cried, "Huzzah for the Captain and his Lady!" and the cheers around them redoubled in response.

Boromir released her, still grinning, and waved them to silence, "Thank you all, but our work is not yet done. Let us finish this so we may all soon be reunited with our loved ones."

When he glanced back at the newcomers he sobered immediately, it was quite clear from their expressions that something was amiss. "What is it, what is wrong? Is it Faramir?" he asked worriedly.

"Yes," Morloth replied heavily, hating to cause him pain at such a joyful moment despite the urgency of their errand. "His condition has not changed, but your father sent men to remove him from the Houses of Healing. Now he has taken Faramir to the Rath Dínen, and he…he has gone mad, Boromir! He plans to burn himself and Faramir!"

Boromir paled, his face blank with shock, "What?! _Burn_ him? How can that be?"

"I…I am sorry, Boromir," Morloth sobbed. "I stepped away from the ward to speak to the Warden…I should have been there to stop them from taking him!"

"No!" Boromir replied, his voice like a whip crack. "You will _not_ blame yourself for this. Do you think I expect you to stand up to armed men? You could have been injured or killed!"

"That's right, Morloth," Pippin added. "After all, the Steward threatened to burn you himself after he caught you in the tomb. He might have, too, if we hadn't gotten away."

Morloth thought Boromir could not look any more staggered after the initial news of his father's madness, but she was wrong. He met her eyes and demanded, "This is true?"

Her heart in her throat, she managed a bare nod and Boromir shuddered and caught her hand in an iron grip. "How many men does my father have with him?" he asked, glancing from Morloth to Pippin.

"Six, there were six, I think," Pippin said after a moment's consideration.

Morloth nodded in agreement, "That's right. He sent two away to get wood and oil, but they may have returned by now."

Boromir shook his head, his face set and grim. Then he turned and motioned to two mounted couriers that were stationed nearby so he could send messages to the battlefield when necessary.

"Here!" he called to them, "I need you both. You," he ordered, pointing to the first, "will take this halfling down to the gate and deliver him to Mithrandir without fail. Make haste! Lives depend on it. Pippin, tell Gandalf that we are going ahead to the Stewards' tomb."

Pippin answered with a determined nod and soon he and the courier were galloping toward the second level.

Boromir turned to the other courier, saying, "I am taking your mount, but I have a task for you as well. Find Prince Imrahil and tell him that I have been called away on an emergency and he is to command the defenses until I return. Is that clear?"

"Yes, of course, my Lord," the courier murmured, eyes wide.

Finally, Boromir addressed Beregond, who was standing nearby and watching the proceedings with growing alarm. "Beregond," he said in an undertone, "my father has gone mad and threatens to harm Faramir."

"My…my lord, what will you do?" the guardsman asked in horror. "What can I do to help?"

"They are in the Stewards' tomb in the Rath Dínen, I am going there now with all speed. I need you to find a dozen men that you can trust absolutely; they may be required to fight my father's guardsmen. Gather them and follow us as quickly as possible. Can I rely on you for this?"

Beregond squared his shoulders and met Boromir's eyes before replying, "Yes my lord, it will be done."

Boromir mounted the horse and held out a hand to Morloth, "You, my lady, are with me. I pray there will still be a patient for you to tend when we arrive, and besides, at the moment I don't feel inclined to let you out of my sight."

"I am glad to hear that," Morloth replied dryly, "since I would surely have something to say if you tried to leave me behind."

She was seated securely in front of him, and they were soon riding through the pre-dawn gloom, the horse's hooves ringing on the flagstones. Boromir's arm tightened around Morloth's waist and he murmured, "I saw your face when Pippin said that Father had threatened you. You weren't planning to tell me, were you?"

Morloth sighed, "I knew how it would hurt you to hear of your father's madness, and that he might harm Faramir. I…I did not want to cause you more pain, or force you to choose between your father and me."

He let out a pained chuckle, "Dear lady, unless a day comes when _you_ are threatening to burn _him_, that choice has already been made. Don't mistake me, I still love my father and will save him if I can, but sacrificing you to do so is not an option I could ever contemplate. Besides," he added, his voice hardening, "if he were planning to kill innocent strangers rather than the people I love it would still be my duty to stop him, with deadly force if need be. His madness can no longer be ignored or tolerated as eccentricity. With these actions he has forfeited the right to rule the people of Gondor."

Morloth shivered at the finality in his words, and leaned closer to draw comfort from his warmth.

When they arrived at the Rath Dínen gate, they found the gatekeeper back at his post, but looking a little worse for wear. Recognizing Morloth from their earlier encounter, he growled, "You! You'll not be getting past me again!" before realizing who exactly was accompanying her.

"I assume you'll not question _my_ right to enter here," Boromir told him evenly, though the look in his eyes was sufficient to make the man blanch and give ground.

"Of…of course not, my lord," the man stammered, hastening to open the gate for them.

"Good," Boromir said curtly. "Others will be arriving shortly; Mithrandir and a group of guardsmen. They are coming by my order and are to be admitted with no delay. Is that clear?"

"Yes, my lord," the gatekeeper answered quickly.

As they rode past, Morloth leaned down and told the gatekeeper, "Sorry about your head, we were in a hurry. Come see me at the Houses of Healing if it still hurts tomorrow."

"Morloth," Boromir murmured, his voice heavy with exasperation and amusement, "how am I to properly terrorize my men if you insist on being so solicitous?"

"I think he deserves at least a little sympathy," Morloth noted indignantly, "after all, he was just doing his job, although he was ruder than necessary about it."

"I know," Boromir assured her, "and have no fear; he won't be punished for his actions. I simply wanted to be certain that he wouldn't attempt to hinder Gandalf or Beregond."

The courtyard was empty, the horse's hooves clattering noisily on the stone as they neared the crypt Morloth and Pippin had found earlier. They dismounted at the crypt entrance, and Boromir turned to Morloth, his face grave. "I know not what to expect inside, Morloth. I don't _think_ my father will order his men to attack us on sight, nor do I expect them to be eager to cross swords with me, but…" he paused, shaking his head uncertainly. "I will free Faramir if possible, but we may have to play for time until the others arrive."

He met her eyes, "You may come with me, however, you _must_ stay behind me and out of reach of anyone who might wish you harm, including my father. I know your first instinct is to run to the aid of someone ill or injured, but putting yourself in their hands again will only make matters worse. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Boromir, I understand," she replied in a small voice, remembering with chagrin her impetuous actions of earlier that night.

"Good," he smiled and kissed her lightly before unsheathing his sword and cautiously entering the crypt. As they passed down the corridor to the main room, Morloth sighed with relief; she could hear voices, but no heat or smoke to indicate that a fire had been lit inside.

They reached the end of the corridor and Morloth noted immediately that Faramir's stretcher was not where it had been. "Boromir," she whispered, indicating a spot along the side wall, "they moved Faramir, he was just there before."

Boromir nodded and stepped into the room, his sword still drawn but held point down to appear less openly hostile. "Father," he called, "I would speak with you!"

The men nearest to them parted, standing aside for Denethor to step into view. "So you have come, my son," the Steward replied calmly, although the look in his eyes made Morloth shiver. "I suppose I should have expected as much after your whore and the halfling spy escaped."

She felt Boromir stiffen, but he gave no other acknowledgement of the gibe. "Why did you bring my brother here, Father? We agreed that he was to stay in the Houses of Healing. He is fevered and needs a healer's care, not to lie in a comfortless stone tomb."

Denethor smiled, his eyes wild, "Yes, fevered. He is burning, already burning!" Boromir and Morloth were finally close enough to see where Faramir was lying, on a stone bier at the back of the room behind the Steward. The bier was piled high with tinder and soaked with oil, as were Faramir's clothes and bedding. "And why should he not, when we have lost and all is in vain? We shall go to death side by side, burning like the kings of old!"

Morloth gasped, torn between relief that he appeared unharmed and the realization that it would take a mere spark from one of the torches that ringed the room to set the wood alight.

Boromir growled and strode forward, "I will not leave my brother in this place, prey to your madness!"

"You cannot thwart me," Denethor sneered, drawing a sword that until then had been concealed beneath his robe. "You do not command here, as much as you might wish to. Seize them!" he cried, and his men began advancing hesitantly, each unwilling to be the first to face Boromir's blade.

"Perhaps he _should_ command here, if your will has turned to madness and evil," a new voice rang out, and Morloth glanced behind her to see that Gandalf and Pippin had entered the crypt.

With an inarticulate cry of rage the Steward rushed forward, sword held high, as if intending to strike at the wizard. Gandalf stepped up to meet him, and the cloak of white light surrounding him flared and expanded as he advanced. He raised his hand and spoke a word of command. At his gesture, Denethor's sword went flying from his grip to land in a dark corner of the room.

The Steward and his men stepped back in fear and amazement and made no move to stop the wizard as he swept by them to reach Faramir's bier. Gandalf gathered up the sick man with seemingly little effort and started toward the crypt exit as Faramir moaned and stirred restlessly in his arms.

"Do not take my son from me!" Denethor pleaded, "He needs me!"

"What he needs," Gandalf replied curtly, "is a healer's care. In the meantime, your elder son has been doing his duty—and yours—while you tarry here, seeking your own death as well as Faramir's. Go out now into the City and meet the enemy," Gandalf told him urgently. "It may be that you will find your death there, but at least you will die with honor, your duty fulfilled."

"Father, listen to him, you can still lead us to victory!" Boromir added entreatingly. "There is no reason to despair; Rohan has come, and the spirit of your people remains unbroken!"

All for naught as Denethor let out a low chuckle that had no hint of merriment in it. "Witless fools, the both of you!" he said contemptuously. "Did you think that the eyes of the White Tower are blind?" He reached down and pulled a smooth, round object from an inner pocket of his robe, and gazed at it lovingly as he held it aloft, murmuring, "I have seen more than you can comprehend!"

Morloth heard Pippin gasp in alarm, and at her side Boromir tensed and whispered, "So it is true," his voice heavy with dismay.

Almost against her will her eyes were drawn to the gleaming black orb, and as she watched fiery light flared in its core. Remembering Gandlaf's warning, she wrenched her eyes away, her heart racing at the thought of who might be watching them through the _palantír_.

"With this, I see _very_ clearly," Denethor said in a hard voice, "I know what you intend; to lure me to an ignominious death, all the while planning to supplant me with that Ranger, the ragged upstart from the North." He looked up, his eyes blazing, "I say thee, _nay_, I will not bow one to such as he, the last of a debased and dying lineage!"

"You name us fools," Gandalf replied, shaking his head sadly, "but you accept the visions granted to you through the _palantír_ as truth? There is an unseen hand that guides you, one that desires nothing less than the complete destruction of Gondor and its people. You see the images Sauron _wishes_ you to see—reason enough to distrust them!"

"I have seen all I need to, sufficient to know that against the power in the East there can be no victory. No matter that the horse lords have come! Even now a fleet with black sails wafts up the Anduin, sealing Gondor's fate. You have made defeat certain by sending away the one tool powerful enough to save us. Your _wisdom_ has doomed us!" Denethor sneered.

"Father, I once felt as you do," Boromir said earnestly, "but if there is one lesson the Ring has taught me, it is that you cannot hope to defeat the Enemy by _becoming_ the Enemy." He straightened, meeting Denethor's eyes calmly. "I do not believe there is no hope, but if you speak truly, so be it. We will—Gondor will—die as it has lived, defying the Enemy to the end. Please, Father, for the sake of the love you once felt for me," he pleaded, "take up your duties again—join me on the walls to show the people of Gondor that their Steward stands with them in this dark hour."

For a moment, Denethor's face softened and his shoulders slumped; it seemed that his son was reaching him. Then his gaze fell on the _palantír_ still clasped in his hand and a shudder ran through his body. When the Steward looked up, his eyes were blazing with a fell light, and he backed away from them as if in fear or revulsion.

"Nay!" he cried, clutching the gleaming orb to his chest. "Once you were my loyal son, now you are nothing more than the wizard's puppet. I will not be deceived again!" Denethor moved toward the back of the tomb, near the bier where Faramir had been lying. "You may have stolen Faramir from me, but the manner of my own death is still mine to decide!" he declared, darting toward one of the torches that ringed the room.

Understanding immediately his father's intention, Boromir exclaimed, "Father, no!" and launched himself at the mad Steward. Denethor was surprisingly agile; he grabbed a nearby torch and was just steps away from the pile of oil-soaked wood when his son reached him. With no time for subtlety, Boromir simply tackled his father and pulled him to the stone floor before he could set the wood alight. The _palantír_ that Denethor had been holding crashed to the floor in a shower of sparks and rolled away from the struggling men. The room erupted in confusion; some of the Steward's guardsmen stood by uncertainly watching the events unfold, while others ran forward to aid their master. Instinctively, Morloth positioned herself near Faramir to insure that he was not harmed in chaos.

Fortunately Gandalf's presence—and a few well-placed blows from his staff—prevented the guardsmen from intercepting Boromir. "Get the torch, Pippin!" Gandalf cried. "And for Eru's sake make certain no one touches the _palantír_!" Pippin sprang into action, nimbly weaving his way through the throng to kick the torch from the Steward's hand. It struck the stone wall of the tomb and went out while Pippin stationed himself protectively near the fallen seeing-stone. Meanwhile, hampered both by his injury and reluctance to use his full strength against his father, Boromir struggled to subdue the Steward. Morloth could see that Gandalf was similarly unwilling to do serious harm to the guardsmen, using his staff rather than his sword and keeping them at bay with only as much force as necessary.

Boromir and his friends were badly outnumbered, and Morloth watched in consternation, not at all certain they would prevail. So it was a considerable relief when Beregond and the men he had gathered began pouring into the already crowded tomb.


	23. Chapter 23

_This chapter is a bit shorter than previous ones, but not without points of interest, I hope. ;-) Enjoy!_

_EDIT: a minor change for the sake of consistency with later chapters._

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Chapter 23

Gandalf sent one of the Steward's men reeling back with a stinging blow from his staff, and then turned to greet Beregond and his men as they entered the crypt.

"Ah, Beregond, there you are," he said calmly. "Would you be so good as to disarm these men?"

Denethor had finally ceased struggling with his son, and Boromir began the laborious process of getting both himself and his father to their feet. "Take their tabards as well," he told the guardsmen, still a little breathless from his exertions. Beregond stepped forward to assist him with the Steward.

"But…but sir," one of the Steward's guardsmen protested, "we were only following orders!"

"You'll have a chance to defend yourself later," Boromir replied neutrally, "but for now, you are relieved of duty."

Denethor finally found his voice, "How dare you countermand my orders!" he cried. "You have no authority to do so!" He gestured imperiously at Beregond, "You there—arrest my treacherous son and his confederates."

Beregond paled and went still for a moment, then met the Steward's eyes, his voice firm, "I am sorry, my lord, I cannot do that."

The Steward rounded on his son and hissed, "You! You have done this! First you turn my men against me and now you mean to usurp my authority. Now I see that was your purpose all along!"

Boromir sighed and wearily passed a hand over his face. "Father, if that was truly my intent, letting you die by your own hand would have been a far simpler and easier way to see it come to pass."

"Then why didn't you just let me die?" Denethor asked bitterly. "Is it that you wish to shame me as well as tear the White Rod from my hand?"

When Boromir replied, his voice was hard, "You have ignored your responsibilities for far too long already! It would be a disservice to the people of Gondor to let you evade them further in death. And," he continued in a softer tone, "you are still my father, and I hope that someday you will be glad that you lived to see your grandchildren, however you may feel now." Boromir's eyes found Morloth and he gave her a small smile, which she returned, blushing.

By this time, Beregond and the men with him had finished disarming Denethor's guardsmen, "What shall we do with them, my lord?" he asked. "Have them join the fighting on the walls?"

"No, they will have to be detained for now," Boromir told him. "There may be a formal inquiry into what passed here tonight, as well as Father's other actions. Lock them in the guardhouse, but keep them separated. They should not be given the chance to concoct a story that shifts the blame or makes light of Father's actions."

Beregond gave him a grim nod of understanding, and half of his men departed with the prisoners.

Boromir turned his attention once again to the Steward. "Whether you are shamed by your removal from office is entirely in your hands, Father. You do have choices;" he added, "one is that we can announce that you feel that you are no longer capable of executing the duties of the Steward and wish to pass the office to your heir."

"No longer capable!" Denethor scoffed, "No one will believe that!"

"On the contrary, given your actions of late I doubt many will be surprised," Boromir noted dryly.

"The alternative," he continued, "is that we can summon Prince Imrahil and put him in command until a formal hearing of the Steward's Council can be convened, where you can address the charges against you."

"Charges, what charges?" his father asked incredulously.

"Abandonment of your duties for a start," Boromir told him. When Denethor began to protest, his son cut him off, "How long has it been since you have shown the least concern for the conduct of the war? How long since you have requested a report or gone to the walls yourself to see how we fared?"

Denethor fell silent, regarding his son stonily.

"There is also a matter of attempted murder of both your son Faramir and the Healer Morloth, who sought to protect him."

The Steward growled and cast an angry glance in Morloth's direction, but did not otherwise respond.

Boromir paused, seemingly to gather his courage. He met his father's eyes, his expression pained, "Finally, you may also be charged with aiding with the enemy."

"What? No! Never that!" Denethor cried, his face ashen.

Gandalf had retrieved the palantír at the first opportunity and tucked it away in an inner pocket of his robe. Now Boromir gestured to the wizard in response. "It is certain that the Enemy has used the Ithil stone—that is how he was able to control Saruman. We _know_ Sauron is watching; surely you do not believe that he would refrain from influencing you if he could not corrupt you outright!"

"No one will believe…" Denethor began weakly, but the expression on his face belied his words.

"Father, you tried to burn your own son to death! Madness or evil are the only explanations for such an act." He squared his shoulders and met his father's eyes, "Especially now, when our very existence is in peril, you _cannot_ be permitted to rule Gondor—surely you can see that!" After a moment, Boromir nodded firmly, "Now you must decide; resign quietly or face formal charges for your crimes. For the sake of Gondor you will be permitted no other choices."

The once-haughty Steward seemed to deflate, growing more gray and bent as they watched. After a long pause he said quietly, "I will resign in your favor, my son."

Boromir blew out his breath, visibly relieved, "Thank you, Father, I assure you this gives me no joy, but seeing you face charges would be far worse. You will be taken to your quarters and I ask that you remain there for now. I will send a scribe to you so that you may draft a formal statement resigning your office."

He turned toward Gandalf and gestured for Beregond to join them. "Beregond, please assign sufficient men to return Faramir to the Houses of Healing and safely escort my father to his quarters. Make certain that Father is treated with all courtesy, and see to his needs, but he is not to leave his rooms or have visitors. Oh, and send a man to find Prince Imrahil, he should witness my father's resignation."

Boromir gave Gandalf a meaningful look and continued in an undertone, "I am relieved that Father agreed to resign, but I mistrust this compliant mood. I suspect that the longer he has to ponder his situation the more likely it is that he will find a way to justify his actions. I dare not wait until after the battle to formalize his resignation."

Gandalf nodded, "Very wise, Boromir." He gave Boromir a wry smile, "Or should I say, 'Lord Steward'?"

Boromir gave a rueful snort, "Eru knows that Captain-General was responsibility enough for one man, but at least little change will be noted by the men since my father has been so negligent of his duties of late."

"It appears you have matters well in hand, my friend, so I will take my leave," Gandalf said briskly. He shook his head, "I fear this diversion has cost lives that I otherwise might have saved. I must return to the battlefield with all haste." He raised one bushy eyebrow, "I shall leave Master Took in your care, my lord Steward. With your new duties you may very well find an able young guardsman such as him to be quite useful."

Boromir smiled in return, "He's very welcome."

Gandalf and Beregond departed, the guardsman escorting a bent and defeated-looking Denethor.

Before the men assigned to Faramir left for the Houses of Healing, Boromir took Morloth aside. Their eyes met and he pulled her into a close embrace, murmuring, "I hardly know where to begin."

"I…I knew this day would come, but to have it come so soon… This…this changes things, does it not?" she asked uncertainly. Boromir could hear the fear in her voice.

"Indeed it does, my love," Boromir said, his voice warm, "but in a good way, at least for us."

"But, you are Lord Steward now, and your duties…"

"Will change somewhat, aye, that is true." Boromir agreed. "But what will not change is my love for you and my determination that we shall be together." He glanced over to the stretcher were Faramir lay, pale and still once again. He sighed, "I know you will do what can be done for Faramir. If the battle is won, we will talk about the future—_our_ future. But for now, know that the two of you are never far from my thoughts."

She laid a hand against his cheek and said softly, "And you are never far from mine, Boromir." She shook her head ruefully, "But I'm afraid it will take some time to adjust to thinking of you as Lord Steward."

He smiled and said resolutely, "Then think of me only as the man you love and who loves you in return. That is more than enough for me."

After a final embrace Morloth departed, following closely behind Faramir's stretcher. Boromir turned to Pippin, who had been waiting nearby. "Well, my friend, it is time to return to our duties. I must confess that I am anxious to learn how the battle goes, though I suppose if we were overrun by orcs I would know by now."

Pippin bowed elaborately Boromir's direction, declaring grandly, "Of course, Lord Steward. I am at your service, Lord Steward!"

Boromir eyed his friend narrowly; there was no mistaking the mischievous gleam in the hobbit's eyes. "That's enough of that, Pippin," he growled affectionately. "Keep it up and I'll be forced find some _extremely_ unpleasant duty for you!"

Pippin laughed and followed Boromir out of the tomb.

-ooo-

When they reached the command post on the third level, Boromir was not surprised to find his uncle gone, and Maethor, a senior captain, in his place.

"My lord!" he exclaimed as they drew near, his face anxious, "Prince Imrahil was called away and asked me to oversee the defenses in his absence. Otherwise, I would not have presumed…"

Boromir waved away his apologies, "Do not concern yourself, Maethor, I asked the Prince to see to an important matter. How goes the battle?"

"Well enough, my lord," the man responded, quickly regaining his composure. "No enemies have entered the city. The Rohirrim charge was broken by a squad of Mûmakil and it seemed that the battle might turn against us, but the horse-lords have regrouped and are holding their own." He met Boromir's eyes, his face troubled, "Not long ago there was an eerie wail that could be heard across the breadth of the battlefield, and since then there have been rumors that the Enemy's general…" His voice fell, "The Witch-King himself, has been destroyed! But I…I am reluctant to believe it without more proof."

Boromir and Pippin exchanged a startled glance and Boromir finally found his voice, "I can readily understand why, Maethor, that would be a gift unlooked-for in these dark times." He shook his head, "We can only pray that the rumor is true and that the price for this unexpected victory was not too high."

A short time later Imrahil returned, his face somber. "It…it is done, Boromir. You are now Lord Steward, needing only formal investiture in the office. I have made arrangements for all on the Steward's Council to be notified; and although not necessary at the moment, when the siege is lifted it should be announced to the population at large." He sighed, "I never dreamed your father would consider such a step, but then I have never seen him as…_defeated_ as he is now." He met his nephew's eyes with a challenging look, "You _are_ planning to explain how this came about, are you not?"

Boromir gave a bare nod, "Yes, Uncle, you will hear the full account, but not here and now. It is…still very painful, and it is tale best told in confidence."

"Later, then." Imrahil replied decisively. "Have you heard that the Witch-King has fallen?"

Boromir gasped and exclaimed, "So it is _true_? Maethor mentioned it as a rumor, but I did not think such a fell creature _could_ be killed! How was it done?"

Imrahil shook his head, "Reports have been garbled…there have been wild rumors that I am reluctant to believe… But one thing is known for certain," he said heavily, "King Théoden is dead, killed by the Witch-King and his beast before perishing themselves."

"Oh no!" Pippin cried.

Boromir laid a comforting hand on the hobbit's shoulder. "Grievous tidings indeed," he murmured, his face drawn. "He was a noble man and a good king, and faithful to his oaths."

"Aye, he was," Imrahil replied. "I ordered that his body be laid in state in Tower of Ecthelion. I felt it was the least we could do for so valiant an ally."

Boromir nodded somberly, "That was well done, Uncle, thank you." He glanced out over the battlefield, "So Éomer inherits the crown, then. He lives still, I hope."

"He did when I was called away," Imrahil assured him. "But after he found his uncle slain, he took up the king's fallen banner and led his éored deep into the enemy lines, and I was concerned…" He scanned the battlefield intently, then pointed, "There, to the southeast! The banner flies still, but…"

Boromir followed his gesture and cursed in dismay, "They are nigh surrounded! Éomer, you fool!" After a moment he met Imrahil's eyes and answered the unspoken question on his uncle's face, "Go. I will not let our allies fall while we hold cavalry in reserve."

"I shall gather the Swan Knights immediately," Imrahil said with a nod and turned to depart. Then an unusual sight caught his eye, among the wagons of wounded that moved in a steady stream up the hill toward the Houses of Healing were a group of grim-faced Rohirrim soldiers carrying a cloth draped bier. On it was a slim figure clad in the armor of a warrior of the Mark, with golden hair falling past the shoulders. As they neared, the Gondorians noted to their surprise that the features were that of a young and comely woman.

"Ho!" The Prince cried, "What goes on here?"

Boromir and Pippin followed the Prince closer to the bier; when Pippin got a better look, he stammered, "That's…that's the Lady Éowyn!"

A Gondorian officer hurried up to greet them, saying, "This lady was lately found on the battlefield near where King Théoden lay. I am told she is his near kin, so I thought you would want her body to rest near his in the Tower. Is that not your wish?"

"Of course she must be treated with honor!" Boromir exclaimed. "But how did she come to be on the battlefield? Surely Théoden did not allow her to ride with the men!"

"She rode in secret," one of the Rohirrim told him, his face weary and sad, "none knew she had done so until she revealed herself to the Witch-King as he gloated while Théoden King lay dying. Twas her hand that struck down the evil one, though at the cost of her own life."

Imrahil bent over Éowyn, briefly touching her brow and then holding his shining mail sleeve near her face. "Are there no healers among you? She is as cold as death, but see, she breathes still!" Clearly visible on the metal was the faint fog of her breath. "She is gravely injured, aye, perhaps mortally, but there is still hope that she might live if she is attended to immediately."

Boromir exchanged a relieved glance with Pippin and ordered, "Take her to the Houses of Healing with all haste!"

Meanwhile, two of the Rohir carrying the bier began an animated conversation, one of the pointing repeatedly at Pippin. When he realized that the Gondorians were watching them curiously, the second man spoke up, "My lords, Aeldred does not speak the common tongue, but he asks about the other _holbytla_. Or halfling, as you would say. He says the other halfling rode with the Lady Éowyn and he would like to know his fate, for he was valiant and struck at the black one while seasoned warriors cowered in fear."

Pippin turned to Boromir, his face ashen, "Merry! It…it _has_ to be Merry! We must find him, Boromir, we must!"


	24. Chapter 24

_Here's the next chapter, I hope the wait wasn't too trying! _

_A number of people have Followed/Favorited this story since the last update...I'd just like to remind you that if you enjoy the story a review would be very much appreciated._

_Also note that I've made some minor changes to Chapters 21 and 23 to make a couple of things more consistent with the books and what I'll be writing in later chapters. _

_Thanks for reading!_

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Chapter 24

Boromir knew instantly that Pippin was right; it could be none other than his cousin Merry who had ridden with the Lady Eowyn and fought the Witch-King at her side. His heart clenched in fear; he marveled at the halfling's bravery, but knew only too well what evils could befall Merry on the battlefield, through happenstance as well as intent. If Merry was injured or unconscious and unable to defend himself…

He firmly suppressed a shudder of horror at the thought and turned to a visibly distraught Pippin. "We will find him," Boromir said with a confidence he knew was ill-advised given the circumstances. And as soon as he said the words he also knew that this was a task he would not, _could_ not give to another. "I vow that we will," he continued. "We will leave immediately to search the battlefield."

Pippin blinked back tears and nodded gratefully, too emotional to speak.

Imrahil gazed at him questioningly, "Boromir, do you wish me to stay here and command the defenses after all?"

His nephew shook his head resolutely, "No, Uncle, you should assist Éomer as we discussed. I will have Maethor coordinate the defenses while we are gone." Boromir scanned the battlefield below them and shook his head, "Besides, I feel in my heart that our fortunes will not be decided on walls of the city, but on the plains of the Pelennor. We both must do what we can."

Boromir addressed the waiting Rohirrim once again, gesturing at the soldier who had inquired about Merry, "He is Aeldred, and you are…"

"Gúthren, my lord," the second solider answered.

"Where did Aeldred last see the halfling?"

After a brief conversation with his companion in their own tongue, Gúthren responded, "Directly east of the main gate, very near where Théoden King fell. Aeldred says to look for the body of the foul winged beast that bore the black one."

Boromir nodded, "That will do." He caught the man's eyes, "The halfling is a dear friend and news of his fate means much to me. Tell Aeldred that Boromir of Gondor is in his debt—and yours."

Gúthren started, obviously recognizing the name. "Yes, my lord," he murmured, his eyes wide.

Fortunately, Maethor was stationed not far away, so it took only a short time to arrange for their departure. After bidding farewell to his uncle, Boromir and Pippin mounted the horse that had borne them from the Rath Dinen.

They galloped through the streets to the main gate, merely pausing at the guard posts; they were quickly waved through as soon the Captain-General was recognized. Boromir glanced around as they rode, noting how much the mood had changed the arrival of the Rohirrim. There was no jubilation; the soldiers of Minas Tirith knew better than to count the battle won, but the previous air of desperation barely held in check had definitely lightened.

Pippin had been largely silent during their journey, but now he stirred and spoke. "Boromir, I…I always knew that Merry was brave, or least," he added with a rueful chuckle, "braver than me. But Merry…that Rider said that he attacked the Witch-King! Merry is as close as a brother to me, but I never suspected he could be so brave."

Boromir paused a moment thoughtfully before replying. "Pippin, one never truly knows what a man—or a woman—or hobbit—is capable of until they are tested. If you are asking whether I was surprised to hear of his valor, no, I was not." He gave a dry chuckle, "But then I have not forgotten that both you and Merry charged the uruks on Amon Hen after I fell, or that Morloth might have perished with Faramir at Father's hand had you not been present to assist her."

Pippin reddened, "Oh, that's not the same thing, Boromir!"

His friend snorted in amusement, "Perhaps not, but one lesson I have learned regarding hobbits is that their size does not determine the quality of the character or the depth of their courage."

They reached the main gate, and Boromir was pleased to see that a makeshift barricade had been put in place of the gates destroyed by Grond. He motioned for the guards to pull the barrier aside and cautiously guided his mount onto the field, not wanting to ride into a dangerous situation. However, most of the fighting had moved away from the gate, so he spurred his horse eastward in search of the place were Théoden and the Witch-King fell.

Boromir had seen enough battlefields to take its sights and sounds in stride. In contrast, Pippin's eyes went wide as he took in the chaos around them: the field littered with bodies, the unmistakable stench of blood and death, and the cries and clash of weapons from the battle that still raged not a league distant. "How…how will we ever find him?" the hobbit stammered in dismay.

Griping his friend's shoulder comfortingly, Boromir murmured, "We'll find him, Pippin. The Rider told us where to look, after all." But his own fears grew as he surveyed the area around them. It was obvious that the wounded from Gondor and its allies had been cleared from the field; only the dead remained and would be gathered for burial after the battle. If Merry was alive, why hadn't he been taken into the city? Surely the hobbit could not be mistaken for an orc, especially if he had been garbed as a soldier of Rohan!

The few remaining enemies in their path hurried out of the way as they approached, undoubtedly wary of cavalry after their experience with the Riders of Rohan. Pippin gestured toward one orc in the distance, bent over a group of dead warriors wearing the green of Rohan. "What's that orc doing, Boromir?" he asked, a puzzled frown on his face.

"Scavenger," Boromir growled. "They pick over the remains of the dead looking for anything of worth; friend or foe, it matters not. The filth! They despoil bodies and steal mementos that the fallen men's families would value. If time were less pressing, or if we had one of Faramir's bowmen I'd be happy to end his thieving ways," he added, shaking his head. "But Merry comes first."

Aeldred had chosen his landmark well; the fell beast's carcass was almost impossible to miss, both because of its massive size—only the mûmakíl dwarfed it—and because of its overpoweringly foul stench. Boromir reined his horse to a stop so they could scan the area nearby for any sign of Merry. Movement caught Boromir's attention; it was another scavenger orc, leaning over some bodies a few paces away. Evidently it had not noticed their arrival, so intent it was on its work. _**This**__ one won't leave the field alive,_ Boromir thought with grim satisfaction.

But before he could put his thoughts into action Pippin slid from the back of the horse and unsheathed his sword. "Oy!" the hobbit cried. "Get away from him, you brute!"

Boromir just had time to say, "What? Pippin!" before the hobbit reached his quarry.

The startled orc turned in time to dodge Pippin's sword aimed at his back. Once he recovered from his surprise the orc exclaimed, "Whot? Another one?" Then he grinned evilly, showing broken teeth, "I can kill two as easily as one."

Thoroughly baffled by this point, Boromir swung down from the horse and hurried to join his friend. It was only then that he noticed a distinctive large, furry foot protruding from underneath the pile of bodies near where the orc had been standing when they arrived. He cursed in dismay and drew his sword.

The orc advanced on Pippin, swinging its sword confidently. It was not a particularly large orc, but still was a head taller than the hobbit, with long, bandy arms that gave it a significant advantage in reach. If that intimidated Pippin he gave no sign; his face was grim and determined as he aimed a quick swipe at the orc's neck that made it hiss and step back in alarm.

In the next moment the orc's alarm increased as it was jerked backward. It gave a grunt of puzzlement and shock as it stared at the sword now jutting from its chest; Boromir had used the simple expedient of pulling the orc onto his blade from behind.

"My apologies, Pippin," Boromir told him as he kicked the dead orc from his sword, "I have every confidence you could have taken him, but I thought speed was of the essence."

The hobbit didn't reply, and seemingly didn't even hear Boromir, so intent he was on reaching his cousin. He tugged at the body that partially obscured Merry from view, and gave a heartfelt cry of frustration when the body proved too heavy for him to move. The Gondorian hurried to assist him and together they soon uncovered Merry's small form.

"Boromir, do you think…" Pippin began, fear for his cousin clear on his face.

Before Boromir could respond, Merry stirred weakly and whispered, "Pip, is that you?"

Boromir felt a great weight life from his heart—Merry was alive!

Pippin's face was aglow with relief, tears streaming down his face, "Of course it's me, Merry! Boromir is here too—we've come to rescue you!"

Merry open his eyes blearily and attempted to focus on the faces above him. "Boromir? Oh, we were so happy when Strider told us that the orcs hadn't killed you after all!"

"As are we to find you still with us, Merry," Boromir replied, shaking his head in wonder. "You gave us a quite a fright." He was checking Merry for wounds as he spoke; no serious injuries were immediately apparent. "Merry, are you injured?" he asked worriedly. "Does anything hurt?"

Merry clutched his right arm with left, "My…my arm. It doesn't _hurt_, but it hasn't worked right since I struck…_him_," he said with a shudder. He met Pippin's anxious eyes, a haunted look on his face. "After I stabbed him, my sword burned up like a stick of wood. And now I'm so c…cold."

Pippin gently touched his cousin's arm and whispered, "Boromir, his arm is ice cold!"

Wordlessly, Boromir found a cloak on a nearby Rider that wasn't too torn or bloody and wrapped it tightly around the shivering hobbit.

Trying to keep the fear out of his voice, Pippin said cheerfully, "Don't worry, Merry, we're going to take good care of you. We'll take you to Morloth at the Houses of Healing. She's the healer that saved Boromir—so you remember Strider telling us how they found her?"

Merry was struggling to stay conscious. "You're not going to bury me?" he asked, his face drawn and anxious.

Boromir and Pippin exchanged an alarmed look over Merry's prone form. "Of course not, Merry!" Pippin said heartily, "You'll be your old self in no time."

Boromir brought their horse closer and addressed his friend, "You mount first, Pippin, and I'll set Merry in front of you." He shook his head in frustration, "My shield arm is still weak; I dare not trust it to hold Merry securely and I need to keep my sword arm free in case we run into trouble. You'll have to hold him and keep yourself mounted no matter what happens."

Pippin gave a determined nod, "I won't let him fall, Boromir."

His friend smiled warmly and replied, "I know you won't, Pippin." In the meantime Merry had slipped back into unconsciousness, so once Pippin was seated securely on the horse Boromir picked up the injured hobbit and gently placed him in front of Pippin. After mounting behind the two hobbits, he spurred their horse on the most direct route toward the main gate of the city, careful to avoid any stray enemies or places that some might be hiding.

They had almost reached the gate when Gandalf galloped up on Shadowfax in a blaze of white light. "There you are," he cried, 'I've been looking for you since Imrahil told me what had occurred." His keen gaze fell on the bundled form held by Pippin, "And you found Merry, thank Eru! Well done, both of you. Boromir, I can take the hobbits from here; Shadowfax is faster and has a smoother gait."

Boromir nodded in ready agreement, "Of course, Gandalf." They quickly transferred Pippin and the still unconscious Merry onto Shadowfax's back.

Before setting off, Gandalf fixed his eyes on Boromir. "Are you returning to the city as well, Boromir?"

"Not quite yet, I think," Boromir told him after a moment. "This is the first chance I've had to tour the battlefield. I'd like to have a clearer notion of how we fare before I return."

Gandalf nodded, "Very well. But be cautious!" he added sharply. "You have been Lord Steward less than a day and it would not do to lose you."

Boromir rolled his eyes, "Understood, Gandalf. No undue heroics."

As the wizard directed Shadowfax toward the gate, Boromir heard him tell Pippin, "Merry deserves to be escorted into the city with great honor and ceremony after what he has done. You both have honored the Shire with your deeds this day."

"Oh Gandalf, we hobbits are too sensible to worry about things of that sort! I just want Merry to get well!"

Gandalf's reply was lost on Boromir as Shadowfax galloped out of earshot. So he turned his attention to the southeast where the battle still raged. He rode as close as he dared to the fighting without actually getting embroiled in it himself, and found a small rise that gave him a better view of the field.

After a few minutes assessing the situation, he nodded in satisfaction, cautiously optimistic that they might yet prevail. The outcome of the battle was not certain by any means for they were still vastly outnumbered, but the enemy had few mounted troops. The mûmakil had been used to devastating effect against the Rohirrim, but with most of the great beasts dead or their handlers slain, the remaining cavalry gave the Gondorians and their allies a significant advantage. Boromir could see Imrahil and his Swan Knights in the midst of the fiercest fighting, with Éomer and his éored not far away. They had not yet been able to join forces, but the arrival of the Prince and his men had prevented the new King of Rohan from being surrounded and overwhelmed.

Boromir had spurred his mount away to find another vantage point when cries from the city caught his ears. The tiny figures of men on the walls were pointing toward the south, where the Anduin first curved west, then south past the spur of Mount Mindolluin. The cries redoubled; he could not hear their words, but as he gazed south he found he did not need to, he could see for himself all too clearly the reason for their alarm.

_Ships_. A fleet of ships with black sails wafting silently up the Anduin toward the docks of Harlond. Boromir felt hope die in his heart; the arrival of the Corsairs could only mean that Belfalas had fallen, and Lebennin as well. What chance for victory did Gondor now have?

Boromir furiously reviewed his options; should he call for all the remaining forces to retreat into the city? No more allies would come to assist them; Sauron's forces could simply starve them out. He could empty the city of fighters in hopes of beating back this new onslaught, but his mind quailed in horror at the thought of leaving the city and its people so defenseless.

The lead ship turned toward Harlond, and as it did so, a great banner unfurled from its mast, revealed as the wind took it. Boromir's breath caught in his throat as he gazed at the device on it in wonder. It was black, but instead of the Enemy's fiery eye or some vile symbol of Harad, the White Tree flowered there. Displayed above the Tree of Gondor were seven glittering stars and a crown, symbols of the house of Elendil; symbols of the kingship that no man had dared claim in nearly a thousand years.

Boromir lifted his voice in joyous cry and spurred his horse south, heedless of the danger. Only one man could rightfully bear such a standard; a man who now fulfilled the promise he had made to a wounded and despairing companion on Amon Hen. His throat closed with emotion; Gondor would survive this day, for Aragorn had come.


	25. Chapter 25

_As I'm sure my readers have noticed by now, I like to follow the original storyline as much as possible. That said, what's the point of writing a fanfic if you can't change certain events so they're more to your liking? So in this chapter we have another unexpected consequence of Boromir surviving; the chance to 'fix' something that always bothered me in the book. And of course, the reintroduction of a favorite character we haven't seen since the first chapter._

_Hope you enjoy it! As always, reviews are extremely welcome._

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Chapter 25

Halbarad of the Dúnedain grimaced as another wave of enemies surged toward him. The battle was not proceeding at all the way he had hoped it might. It had _started_ so well—anticipating allies and an easy victory, many of Sauron's more craven soldiers had broken and run when the ships proved instead to be filled with more foes. But not all had fled; the hardier orcs and men serving the Dark Lord had remained to fight, seemingly more determined than ever to prevail. Aragorn and the Gray Company had found a small rise just north of the docks and prepared to take their stand against the horde. Halbarad planted the banner in the earth and faced them at his captain's side, expecting to remain there come what may.

Alas, it was not to be; a small group of Easterling cavalry charged them, the taunting banner a focus for their ire. The Easterlings were defeated, but not before Halbarad and a few men from Belfalas were swept away and cut off from the larger group. They had acquitted themselves well, for a time. But one by one the other men had fallen, and now the ranger stood alone.

It was maddening! Each new group of orcs he cut down immediately replaced by another, preventing him from rejoining the other Dúnedain. A familiar voice called his name and he glanced up to see Aragorn staring in his direction, consternation on his face. Halbarad responded with what he hoped was a reassuring wave—he had no desire to put his captain's life at risk to save his own. He set his mind firmly to the task of slaying the enemies between his position and his companions; he was beginning to tire and knew he could not last much longer on his own.

A hard blow caught the side of his helmet and he was sent sprawling, his senses reeling from the impact. There was a roar of triumph above him and he cleared his eyes just in time to see a huge orc looming over him, sword raised. Halbarad rolled desperately to avoid the stroke, losing his grip on his own sword in the process. He felt the thump of the orc's blade as it struck the churned earth next to him. Scrambling frantically to reach his weapon, he pushed from his mind the thought that these were likely the last moments of his life. His fingers had just touched the hilt of his sword when the orc growled furiously, "You're done, Tark!" as it lifted the sword above its head.

Then the ranger heard another cry, this one from a man's throat, and as he watched in astonishment as the orc went down under a horse's flailing hooves, its chest a ruin of black blood. Relief flooded Halbarad as he gazed at the man responsible for this timely intervention, thinking at first that the rider must be one of the Rohirrim that were still plentiful on the field. But when the man dismounted to finish the orc, Halbarad could see that his surcoat was emblazoned with the White Tree of Gondor. He was a big man, tall and strongly built, with the commanding presence of a seasoned officer. As he watched, the Gondorian quickly dispatched the orcs that still pressed around them, and it was clear that he was also a warrior of no mean experience or skill. Soon the orcs learned that the two men were no easy prey and sought weaker targets elsewhere, gaining them a brief respite.

The man turned his attention to Halbarad. "Are you injured?" he asked, his green eyes clouded with concern.

"My head is still ringing from where the brute struck me," Halbarad replied, "but otherwise I am unwounded."

The man smiled reassuringly and offered his arm to the ranger to help him rise, "We'll have that looked at, to be sure." Halbarad noted in passing that the man used his right arm to assist him even though it meant he must transfer his sword to his left hand to do so. Then comprehension dawned and Halbarad understood something he had noticed but not recognized as important before. The man was a superb fighter—the ranger had seen few better—but he fought with his left arm tucked awkwardly near his body, quite unlike the free movement expected of one so skilled. His rescuer was himself injured!

"You have my most sincere thanks, sir," Halbarad told the stranger with a slight bow. "Had you not intervened I'm afraid the swine would have had the best of me."

The Gondorian grinned in reply, "After inviting Aragorn to Minas Tirith I would be a poor host indeed to let one his company be skewered by these orc scum outside the very gates of my city." His eyes narrowed shrewdly, "And not just a companion of Aragorn's, but a kinsman as well, lest my eyes deceive me. You have the look of him."

"You see truly, sir, I am his cousin. Halbarad of the Dúnedain at your service," he added, bowing more deeply this time. The ranger had been doing his own assessment of his rescuer, and it pointed to one conclusion, that this was no common soldier. Although the man's coloring was lighter than Aragorn and his kin, his height and fair features suggested that he was of high Númenórean descent as well. In addition, his armor and weapons were of excellent quality, and his tone when he spoke of his invitation to Aragorn struck Halbarad as much more proprietary than the pride of an ordinary citizen. This man had good reason to call Minas Tirith _his_ city.

"And I believe I could name you as well, my lord," Halbarad continued, "had not Aragorn told me that Boromir of Gondor was wounded near to death not two ten-days ago."

A look of dismay crossed the man's face, and he murmured in surprise, "Aragorn has spoken of me?" Before Halbarad could respond he regained his composure and nodded, his mouth twisted in wry smile, "No matter. Well met, Halbarad of the Dúnedain," he said heartily. "Yes, I am Boromir. I am not yet the fighter I was, but I am mending, thanks to the good efforts of Aragorn, among others." He glanced around, "Which reminds me; perhaps we should rejoin your fellows? Not only do I have much to say to your captain, but the orcs seem to be gathering their courage. After all, it would be a pity if we were to get ourselves killed and let a good rescue go to waste."

Boromir was right; the orcs had regrouped and appeared to be readying themselves to charge the two men. Soon they were both mounted on the Gondorian's horse and on their way. Thankfully, the distance between their location and the Gray Company, which had seemed so vast when the ranger was alone on foot, was quickly traversed by two mounted men with swords at the ready to dissuade the enemy from attacking.

As they neared the others, the Gondorian nodded toward the glittering banner, "Words cannot express what it meant to me when that unfurled and I knew that all was not lost…" He shook himself, then added, "But how did Aragorn come by it? I am certain he was not carrying it when we travelled together."

"The Lady Arwen made with her own hands, and entrusted it to me for delivery," Halbarad told him, rightly proud that he had been chosen for such a task. "Her brothers accompanied us as well."

Boromir's eyebrows rose. "Indeed?" he replied in a thoughtful tone.

Their approach had been noted; Aragorn's company parted to let them pass and the Gondorian reined in his mount next to the banner. Halbarad slid off the horse and went immediately to clasp arms with Aragorn who was waiting for them, a bemused look on his face.

"Welcome back, cousin, we were afraid we had lost you," Aragorn said, smiling warmly. "You are uninjured?"

"Yes, thanks to the quick actions of a friend of yours," Halbarad replied, nodding toward the Gondorian, who was just then dismounting. Oddly, even after telling the ranger that he needed to speak to Aragorn he was hanging back, seemingly reluctant to approach, as if he were unsure of his welcome.

If that was the case, his fears proved groundless; for Aragorn crossed the distance and pulled Boromir into a rough embrace, relief and joy clear on his face. "Boromir!" he exclaimed, then released the man to hold him at arm's length. "How good it is to see you again, well and hale! I cannot tell you how much it grieved us to leave you so near death. Merry and Pippin were distraught, thinking you had died to save them, so I assured them you still lived but I knew your survival was far from certain…"

He broke off, looking distressed, but the Gondorian hastened to reassure him, his voice rough with emotion, "Aragorn, you were right to leave me to save the hobbits, never doubt that!" He shook his head impatiently, "I have never faulted you for your choice, as Morloth will attest."

"Ah, Morloth," Aragorn smiled, "a remarkable lady, that much was apparent even from our brief acquaintance. It seems I chose well in entrusting you to her care."

To Halbarad's surprise, Boromir reddened and stammered, "Ah, yes, you could say that."

Aragorn gave him an inquiring look, but responded neutrally, "An amazing recovery given your injuries, and you have clearly not lost your skill with a sword."

"I am not entirely recovered; using my shield is still beyond me, but I am fortunate that my sword arm was uninjured." The Gondorian's attempt at modesty was not completely successful, but Halbarad did not feel at all inclined to fault him for his understandable pride.

The ranger grunted and murmured, "Even injured you're still a damn fine fighter, as I have good reason to know."

His captain gave Boromir a curious look, "As grateful as I am that you saved my wayward kinsman, what are you doing here? Surely the Lord Steward's heir should not be wandering alone on the battlefield!"

Boromir grimaced and sighed, "Steward's _heir_ no longer, Aragorn. As of this morning I am the Lord Steward of Gondor."

Aragorn paled and murmured, "Your father? I…I am sorry, Boromir, I did not know…"

The Gondorian held up a hand to forestall him, "No, you misunderstand, Father still lives. For a…number of reasons it was felt to be best for me to succeed him now." He shook his head, "I will explain, but it is a long tale and now is not the time to tell it." He met Aragorn's eyes, "But what of your road? Surely it must be a curious tale that took you from Rohan, where you were last known to be, to the capture of the Corsairs!"

Aragorn snorted, "Another long tale, also too long to be told full in at the moment." His eyes took on a faraway look, "But the Paths of the Dead are empty, and the cursed oath breakers laid to rest."

Boromir paled in his turn and said in a strangled voice, "A curious tale for certain, I will look forward to hearing it!" He glanced around, nodding politely to Elladan and Elrohir who were standing close by, casually fending off any enemies who came too near. "But what of Legolas and Gimli, are they not with you? I had hoped to see them again."

Aragorn chuckled, "I have no doubt that you will. They went off on their own as soon as we landed, determined to continue the orc-slaying contest they began at Helm's Deep.

The Gondorian laughed, "Hopefully we have supplied sufficient numbers to satisfy them, I would not like to be accused of being an ungenerous host!"

"That seems unlikely," Aragorn said dryly. He fixed Boromir with an imperious look, "I note that you have still not yet explained why you are out here alone, a circumstance even less likely for the Lord Steward than his heir."

Unmoved by his censure, Boromir shrugged, "I took the opportunity to look around after being immured in the city since my arrival a week ago. I had not planned to do any fighting but I saw Halbarad here in trouble and I could not resist." He met Aragorn's eyes, his face somber, "I realize you will not know what has occurred; it sorrows me to report that King Théoden has fallen."

"But his banner still flies!" Aragorn exclaimed. "We saw it when we disembarked!"

Boromir nodded grimly, "Éomer took it up when he found his uncle dead, in grief and rage and to honor his fallen king, I believe." Before Aragorn could respond, he continued, "There is more." The Gondorian explained how Éowyn and Merry had ridden in secret and beyond all expectation had slain the Witch-King.

Halbarad knew his kinsman well enough to recognize that he was deeply affected by Boromir's tale. He shook his head, his eyes sad, "This is grievous news, my friend, especially Éowyn's decision to join the battle." Aragorn looked up, "Grievous, but not without hope, since Éowyn and Merry still live and Sauron's most fearsome lieutenant is no more."

The Gondorian was silent, staring with wide eyes at the hilt of Aragorn's sword. "Aragorn," he croaked, "is that what it appears to be?"

"Apologies, Boromir, I had forgotten that you would not have seen it before now. Of course you would recognize the hilt." Aragorn slowly drew his sword, the afternoon sun setting it aglow. "This is Andúril, the Flame of the West, reforged from the shards of Narsil."

"Magnificent." Boromir shook his head, smiling wryly, "I'll wager Sauron will not be pleased to see that sword again." The Gondorian looked as if he were about to speak again, but then turned away, his face clouded. After a moment he murmured, "You…you are right, of course, Aragorn. I should return to the city."

"Boromir, what is it?" Aragorn asked, recognizing his distress. "What troubles you? Do you feel it was unwise to reforge Narsil?"

"No, no, of course not, Aragorn! It can only assist us in the fight against Sauron. It's…it's just…" he sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face before continuing. "the sword and the banner are symbols of kingship. You know I honor your claim to the throne and will support you as I promised. But…" he met Aragorn's eyes, grimacing in chagrin, "the defense of Gondor has always been _my_ responsibility, never more so than now that I have taken on Father's duties. It is…_difficult_...more difficult than I anticipated, to place the fate of Gondor in another's hands, no matter how much I trust him."

Aragorn put his hands on Boromir's shoulders and said urgently, "Then do _not_, Boromir. It was never my intention to wrest Gondor from the care of someone its people have come to love and trust, especially when he has proven himself to be such and able and faithful guardian."

The Gondorian stared at him in surprise, "You…you do _not_ wish to claim your birthright?"

The heir of Isildur smiled, "Time enough for that if we win this war and Sauron is defeated. For now I am the Captain of the Dúnedain Rangers, come to assist our southern cousins in the fight against a common enemy. If we prevail in today's battle, my company will camp outside the gate with Gondor's other allies." One eyebrow arched, "Of course, if the Lord Steward of Gondor requires my counsel, I would be more than happy to oblige."

"Are…are you certain of this, Aragorn? It does not seem fitting to deny you the honors you are due." Boromir shook his head, "Many have seen the banner and will remember what it means; there _will_ be talk… But I confess that it will be far simpler to go on as we have for the moment, especially since some on the Steward's Council may already be questioning my early—and irregular—inheritance of the Stewardship."

"All the more reason to leave matters as they are for now," Aragorn answered with a fleeting smile. "I am certain, Boromir."

Boromir gripped Aragorn's arm and smiled in return, "Very well, my friend, if that is how you wish it to be. I will send out what men can be spared from the walls to finish this rabble quickly. But you can be certain that the Lord Steward _will_ require the wise counsel of his kin from the North-lands."

Aragorn nodded, "You have but to send word and I will come." He gazed out at the foes surrounding them, "The battle is not yet won, Boromir, will you be able to reach the gate safely?"

The Gondorian snorted, "The enemy has taken particular exception to your company's presence, it seems. If I can win past the ring of those around us, gaining the gate should not be difficult."

"It would be my pleasure to assist," Aragorn replied with grim smile. He drew Andúril and with a cry led the Gray Company in a charge that broke the enemy ranks long enough for Boromir to ride through.

As he waved farewell, Boromir called, "If you meet Éomer this day, please tell him that Éowyn lived when she was brought from the field and was taken to the Houses of Healing. I fear he may believe she was slain by the Witch-King."

Aragorn acknowledged this with an answering wave and the new Lord Steward of Gondor rode away, back to the city he loved.


	26. Chapter 26

_Sorry for the delay, I wanted to get a few chapters ahead, which paradoxically delayed things a bit. Hope you enjoy it regardless._

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Chapter 26

Morloth finished her note in the ward log, recording which patients had died and how many new patients had been assigned since the previous entry a few hours before. She rubbed her eyes and sighed in relief; the end was finally in sight, the battle won and the fighting over—for now. Boromir had sent word of their victory a short time ago, with assurances that he would visit as soon as his duties permitted.

Her heart clenched, she longed to see him with an almost physical ache, but dreaded telling him that there had been no improvement in Faramir's condition, or Merry's. She stood wearily, intending to check her patients one more time when she was startled by a heavy hand descending on her shoulder.

She turned and looked up into the face of a very tall man, his bright blue eyes shadowed with exhaustion. He had come directly from the battlefield, that much was certain; she had never seen anyone so filthy and gore-spattered who was not injured himself, though no wounds were apparent.

"My sister…" he croaked.

Morloth stared at him blankly for a moment, and then realization struck her. Of course! He was clearly Rohirrim. His hair, though currently as filthy as the rest of him, was golden blond, and she had seen enough of their armor over the last few hours to recognize it immediately. Only one man of Rohan would be seeking his sister here, Boromir's friend Éomer, now the King of the Mark since his uncle's death that morning.

Sensing her confusion, he repeated his request with a hint of desperation in his voice, "My sister Éowyn; I was told she lives and was brought here. Is that not true?"

Morloth bobbed a quick curtsey out of habit, though she doubted that the honors due his new rank were on his mind. "Oh yes, my lord, she is here, I will take you to her immediately."

With a gentle hand on his elbow, she guided him out of the ward to the corridor of private rooms nearby. Morloth knew that the Lady Éowyn had been placed in the care of Hedron, a very senior healer and a good friend, and that her room was near his ward. She found the correct room with no difficulty; it was empty except for the patient, lying still and silent as she had been since her arrival.

On seeing his sister, King Éomer let out a choked sob and all but fell into a chair near the bed. "Éowyn!" he cried in a voice that made Morloth's heart break in sympathy, clutching her slender hand in his large, battered ones.

Fighting back tears, Morloth told him, "I am certain you wish to speak to Lady Éowyn's Healer, I will bring him right away." He nodded absently in response, his eyes never leaving his sister's face.

She found Hedron giving instructions to an aide in the main ward. As soon as he was finished she pulled him aside to a quiet corner. "Hedron, King Éomer has come to see his sister. The poor man looks to be at the end of his strength and was desperate to see her, so I hope you don't mind that I took him directly to her room."

"Not at all, Morloth, there was no reason to keep him waiting." He shook his head, "A sad case; the men who brought Lady Éowyn here say that he had no idea she traveled with the army, it is no wonder he was distraught!"

"I told him I would bring you to speak to him about his sister's condition."

"Of course, I will go immediately." He sighed, "I just wish I had better news to impart, his sister has not moved or spoken since coming here. Her broken arm will mend, but we have no treatment for what truly ails her."

"I know," Morloth replied, her thoughts drawn inevitably to Faramir and Pippin. She laid a hand on Hedron's arm, "But I think we must do something for her brother's comfort as well; he's come directly from the battlefield, exhausted and grief-stricken."

"What did you have in mind?"

"Washing water and something from the kitchen, for a start. And although he may not wish any assistance, we can at least offer to provide an aide to help with his armor." She paused thoughtfully, and then exclaimed "A cot, the very thing! We can set up a cot in his sister's room."

He stared at her, aghast, "Morloth, we cannot ask the King of Rohan to sleep on a _cot_! I'm certain they have a suite prepared for him in the Citadel!"

"Hedron, at the moment the King of Rohan is a man bone-weary from fighting since dawn, bowed down with grief for his uncle and fear for his sister. I doubt very much he will consent to leave her side. If we don't provide a cot we'll have a king sleeping on our floor!"

Hedron sighed heavily in exasperation, "I expect you are right, I will _ask_ him if he wishes a cot for the night." Then he caught Morloth's eyes, his own glinting in amusement, "I suppose I should know better than to question your superior expertise on the subject."

At Morloth's baffled look, he continued, "After all, I imagine the new King of Rohan is well acquainted with our own Lord Boromir…"

"Well, yes, they are good friends," Morloth replied, still confused. "But what does that…" She broke off, blushing furiously. She knew it was too much to expect her fellow Healers not to notice that her relationship with Boromir was unusually close, but this was the first time any of them had commented so pointedly on it.

With all the dignity she could muster, she murmured, "Excuse me, Hedron, I have patients to attend to," and fled to her own ward.

-ooo-

Boromir paused at the door of Morloth's ward and told the guardsmen curtly, "Wait here, please."

One of the men looked concerned, and murmured, "My lord, are you certain…" but a quick head shake from Beregond, who had much more experience with the new Lord Steward's preferences—and temper—caused him to subside.

Boromir rolled his eyes and turned to find Morloth approaching. "What was that about?" she asked in surprise.

He smiled at her through gritted teeth. "Your friend Beregond is all too conscientious, and pointed out that my father was always accompanied by two guardsmen, and so should I be as well. Gandalf and my uncle agreed," he added glumly. What Boromir did not add was that Gandalf and Imrahil were also quite displeased to learn that he had risked himself by going into battle alone, no matter how welcome the result.

"What do they think will happen _here_?" he fumed. "Our own wounded will attempt an assassination, or the Healers decide to assault me?" Then Boromir leaned close with a wicked gleam in his eyes. "Though I would not object in the least if _you_ were to assault me," he murmured.

Morloth blushed and glanced around anxiously, "Not here, Boromir!"

He sighed, "No, I suppose not." Too buoyed by the exhilaration of victory to remain low-spirited for long, he grinned at Morloth, "I have wondrous news, my lady! Aragorn has come, with a company of his kinsmen from the North, and Lord Elrond's sons as well."

"Oh! Some of the wounded brought in recently spoke of ships that bore the banner of the White Tree—but showing the crown and stars of the King as well. So I wondered…"

Boromir nodded, "Yes, that was Aragorn. He brought ships filled with men from the southern provinces, those that could be spared once the threat of the Corsairs was eliminated."

"So he plans to claim the throne?" she asked in a whisper, her eyes wide with wonder.

"Eventually, if all goes as we hope. But for now, he is the Captain of the Northern Dúnedain, and is camped outside the walls with his men."

Morloth's face lit and she laid a hand on his arm, "Boromir, that reminds me, your friend Éomer, the new king of Rohan, is here with his sister." She shook her head, "He was quite distressed when he arrived; the presence of a friend might bring comfort."

"Of course, Morloth, I'll go straight away." He sighed, "Tis no surprise he was distraught, he assumed she was safe in Rohan until he found her lying next to his uncle, and then he thought her dead!" Boromir met Morloth's eyes, "How is she—and Merry?"

"They are both alive, and unconscious," she said, choosing her words with care.

Boromir's eyes searched her face, looking for assurances she could not give. "We will speak again after I see Éomer," he said.

"Of course, Boromir, let me show you to the Lady Éowyn's room." Morloth guided him to a private room not far away, which they found guarded by two Rohirrim soldiers.

"Oh my," Morloth murmured. "He came by himself, they must have arrived in the meantime."

Boromir chuckled mirthlessly, "It seems the necessities of rule have caught up with Éomer as they have with me."

"Boromir," Morloth whispered urgently, "I…I suggested to Hedron that we provide a cot for King Éomer; he looked so exhausted and I didn't think he'd want to leave his sister. Do you think he was offended? Perhaps I should tell him it was my idea—I don't want him to be angry with Hedron."

"Morloth," Boromir said soothingly, "he has spent the last few nights sleeping on the ground, so a cot will seem like the height of luxury! Besides, Éomer is as new to being king as I am to being Lord Steward, and I am certain he is as impatient with the trappings of royalty as I am. It was a fine idea, and kindly meant, and he will take it as such." He kissed her hand, "I will look for you in the ward once I've spoken to Éomer."

Morloth departed, but before the Boromir could approach Éowyn's door his new guardsman strode up to address the King's guards, "Tell your master that the Lord Steward of Gondor wishes to speak to him." The Rohirrim soldiers, impressed but obviously trying not to show it, glanced at each other before one of them disappeared inside.

Boromir cast a pained glance at Beregond, who sighed, "I will speak to him, my lord."

"See that you do," Boromir growled. "I am not my father and do not wish to treated as if I am."

"Understood, my lord."

The Rohirrim guard returned and said to Boromir, "You may enter, my lord,"

When Boromir entered the room there was a look of barely concealed irritation on Éomer's face which quickly transformed to one of astonishment and then pleasure upon recognizing his friend.

"Boromir!" he cried before pulling the Gondorian into a rough embrace. "This is a surprise, but a happy one to be sure! I couldn't imagine why your father would need to speak to me at Éowyn's sick bed, but you…" He stopped, his face drawn with concern, "He did say 'Lord Steward', did he not? Your father…"

"My father lives still," Boromir assured him. "It became clear he could no longer meet the demands of the office, so he resigned in my favor." He clasped Éomer's arm, "But Théoden…I share your sorrow, my friend. He was a good king and an honored ally, and Rohan's sacrifice will not be forgotten by Gondor or by me."

"Thank you, Boromir," Éomer murmured, "It is some comfort that he died as the brave man and strong king he was before that snake, Wormtongue, poisoned his mind; but Béma, I will miss him!" He turned away, his eyes glinting with unshed tears.

Wanting to give his friend time to compose himself, he glanced around the room and saw that a cot had been provided to Éomer, as yet unused. "The Healers have been accommodating your needs, I hope?" he inquired.

"Oh, yes, very much so," Éomer said with a nod, "especially considering a very dirty and blood-spattered king appeared on their doorstep unannounced." A wry smile crossed his lips, "In candor, given Gondor's reputation, I had expected more formality and concern about propriety, and you know how little I care for such things. They've even provided a cot for me to sleep on, which no doubt I'll be using soon."

Boromir was tempted to give Morloth credit for suggesting it, but it felt out of place to speak of his own happiness considering all the grief Éomer had endured of late. Instead, he said simply, "I am glad. There is a room prepared for you in the Citadel whenever you wish to use it."

Éomer nodded wearily, "My thanks, Boromir."

Their eyes were drawn toward the pale, slender figure on the bed. Her left arm was splinted, but there were no other obvious wounds and if not for her unnatural stillness one might think her merely asleep. Boromir finally broached the subject they had been tacitly avoiding since he arrived. "How is she, my friend?" he asked in a low voice.

"She lives, and I'm grateful for that since I thought I'd lost her as well as our uncle," Éomer responded, his face bleak. "But I can tell that the healers are concerned that she may not recover. It is clear they have all too much experience with this 'Black Shadow' that contact with the Ringwraiths can cause, and that little can be done if those so afflicted do not improve on their own."

He met Boromir's eyes, "The Warden of the Houses came by to speak to me a short time ago, and told me there are a number of others here with similar ailments, including the halfling, Meriadoc, who fought alongside my sister, and your brother, Faramir."

Boromir nodded, pausing before trusting himself to speak, "Yes, Faramir was wounded in the retreat from the Rammas Echor. It was only an arrow wound in the arm and seems to have healed cleanly, but he is fevered and has not awoken."

"I am sorry, Boromir, I know you and your brother are close." Éomer murmured. He glanced back to Éowyn, and continued, his voice anguished, "I just wish I understood _why_ she did this! Why would she wish to imperil herself this way? I…I am rightly proud of what she did, but it will be for naught if I lose her!"

Boromir gripped Éomer's shoulder sympathetically, "I wish I had some profound wisdom to share, Éomer. I can only say that sometimes great hearts cannot be gainsaid, no matter how much those that love them might wish it."

Éomer was silent for a moment, then sat in the chair next to the bed and took Éowyn's hand. He glanced back at Boromir, "Thank you again, my friend." He gave the Gondorian a wry look, "You know, it is some solace to me that you were too stubborn to die, despite what Aragorn tells me were grievous wounds. There must be hope for our loved ones as well."

"There is always hope while we breathe, Éomer," Boromir smiled. "Try to get some rest."

Éomer waved farewell and turned his attention to his sister, while Boromir took his leave.

-ooo-

When Boromir returned to Morloth's ward he found her in close conversation with Gandalf and Pippin outside Merry's room. Their faces were grim.

Morloth brightened when she saw the new Steward, "How is King Éomer, Boromir?"

He sighed, "Well enough. He is worried about his sister, and it appears that he has good reason to be." He looked from one face to the next, "Has something happened?"

Morloth hesitated for a moment, then said carefully, "There is no cause for alarm as yet, but it is a concern that although Merry spoke to you both when you found him, he has not awoken since. I had also hoped to see some signs of recovery from Faramir, but so far there have been none."

"We must find a way to fight this malady, or I fear it will be too late!" Gandalf growled in frustration.

"Gandalf, you woke Boromir when his father gave him the sleeping draught, perhaps you could do the same with Merry," Pippin said eagerly.

"My dear fellow, that is not the same thing at all!" Gandalf told the disappointed hobbit.

Morloth did not hear his explanation of exactly why it was not the same, for at that moment the Warden approached and asked to speak to her, an aged parchment clutched in his hands.

"What is it, sir?" she asked politely, hoping for even a brief respite from worry for her patients.

"You may recall, Morloth, I offered to search the archives for something that might help Lord Faramir," the Warden said quietly, his face intent. "The fact that we now have a number of patients suffering from the Black Shadow of the Ringwraiths made the task all the more urgent."

"Of course I remember, Warden, did you find anything useful?" Morloth inquired hopefully.

"I…_may_ have," he said hesitantly. "I found a very old document—I believe it is at least a thousand years old—that describes symptoms almost identical to what we have seen in patients like the Lady Éowyn and the halfling. They do not call it the 'Black Shadow', but it can be nothing else."

"That's wonderful, Warden! Do they tell of a treatment?"

He sighed, "They do not, unfortunately. But they did include a verse that was noteworthy; I thought particularly so because of your recent interest in _athelas_." He thrust the yellowed parchment into her hands. "Here, my dear, read it for yourself."

The verse was short, just six lines, and as she read the last line she gasped in shock. "Boromir, Mithrandir, you must hear this!" she exclaimed.

She read aloud, her voice shaking with excitement and wonder:

_When the black breath blows  
and death's shadow grows  
and all lights pass,  
come athelas! Come athelas!  
Life to the dying  
In the king's hand lying!_

When she was finished there was silence for a moment, then a loud thud as Gandalf's staff struck the floor, causing the head to briefly flare to life.

"Curse me for a blind fool! Of course!" the wizard cried. Without another word he swept out of the room and was gone.

The Warden looked from one face to the next in astonishment, before asking, wide-eyed, "I take it there is reason for hope?"


	27. Chapter 27

_I'm finally getting caught up on my writing, so I hope you all won't mind that I'm posting a little earlier than usual. :-) FYI, this chapter in particular was a complete bear to write; I wanted to follow the book story line fairly closely without just regurgitating it, and that's surprisingly hard to do._

_By the way, there have been several new favorites and follows recently, and I wanted to let my new readers in particular know that I really, really appreciate reviews! I find it very helpful to hear what people like - or don't - in my stories.  
_

_Thanks for reading, h__ope you all enjoy it!_  


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Chapter 27

Morloth looked up to see Mithrandir entering the ward, a tall man wearing a deep hood following close behind him. Her breath caught in her throat knowing who it must be.

"We have returned, Morloth," the wizard told her as the tall man stepped forward and pulled the hood back from his face. As she expected it was Aragorn, looking very tired and careworn, but otherwise much as he did when they had met on the banks of the Anduin.

She was about to curtsey, but he anticipated her, clasping her hand and saying, "Nay, Morloth," his tone gently chiding and his gray eyes alight. "That was not necessary when we first met and you thought me a disreputable rogue, and it is not necessary now."

She snorted, amused despite the gravity of the situation. "I never thought that!" she told him indignantly.

"You would not have been the first," Aragorn chuckled. "It is good to see you again, Morloth," he continued. "Boromir and I met on the battlefield earlier, and I would be remiss if I did not give you my thanks for tending him with such care. You repaid my trust many times over; matters in Rohan might have been far worse if we had been long delayed in following the orcs."

Morloth blushed and murmured, "Thank you, I was happy to assist," all the while wondering whether Mithrandir had mentioned to him that her relationship with Boromir was much more than that of a healer and her patient. But if the ranger had been told, he gave no sign of it.

"Gandalf feels there are patients here that would benefit from my skills, Morloth, what can you tell me of them?"

"Yes, indeed…Aragorn," she stumbled a bit over his name, feeling over-familiar but sensing that he would be uncomfortable with 'sire' or 'my lord'. "We have all too much experience with normal battle injuries, but for some, especially those who have had close contact with the Ringwraiths, something else is at work. Even with no other serious injuries, certain patients cannot be roused; eventually they grow cold and just…fade away. There is no other way to describe it!"

Aragorn nodded, his face grim, "The Black Breath, yes, I am familiar with it." He shook his head ruefully, "Would that Elrond was here, his healing skills are unsurpassed."

"He is not," Gandalf rumbled, "so you will have to do." He gave Aragorn a wry glance, "Besides, I certain that you fail to give yourself sufficient credit."

The ranger sighed, "That may be." He turned back to regard Morloth, "Perhaps you could tell which patients are in the most urgent need of aid."

She nodded, "The halfling Merry and Lady Éowyn are the most seriously afflicted with the 'Black Breath', as you call it; hardly surprising since I'm told they had very close contact with the Lord of the Nazgûl. But…" she looked up to meet his eyes, her face troubled, "I am most concerned about Boromir's brother, Faramir. He took an arrow wound in the arm at the beginning of the siege which seems to have healed well, but he has lain fevered and unconscious all the while since then." Her voice fell, "I…I have told not Boromir so, not wanting to alarm him, but I greatly fear that Faramir's strength is failing."

Aragorn nodded, his face grave, "May I see them?"

"Of course!" Morloth responded eagerly. "This way."

As they neared their destination, a small figure appeared in the doorway of Merry's room. "Strider!" Pippin exclaimed, running up to embrace his friend. "I'm so glad to see you again," he said, his face bright. "You know, I was taking a breath of fresh air on the walls when the ships arrived, and even though everyone was crying, 'Corsairs!' and looking upset, I knew it was you."

"How could you possibly have known that, Pippin?" Morloth asked in surprise.

"Well, I knew he was coming and he wasn't here yet, so it _had_ to be him, don't you see?" Pippin explained.

Morloth and Aragorn exchanged an amused glance, but before they could respond, Pippin asked anxiously, "You're going to help Merry, aren't you, Strider? And Faramir? After Gandalf left I remembered how you kept Frodo from dying after he was stabbed on Weathertop, and I was so angry with myself that I hadn't thought of it before."

Aragorn laid a comforting hand on Pippin's shoulder, "Yes, Pippin, I'm here to help Merry, Faramir, Lady Éowyn and anyone else who might need it. Is Faramir nearby? I would like to examine him first."

A familiar voice rang out, "He is here, Aragorn, thank you for coming." The ranger looked up to see Boromir standing in a doorway not far away. "Do…do you believe you can help Faramir and the others?" he asked, his heart in his eyes. He chuckled ruefully, "It seems a bit unfair to demand that you heal them based on a verse from a thousand year-old piece of parchment."

Aragorn met his gaze steadily, "I will not make any false promises, for it is possible that some of those afflicted may be too far gone bring back; but yes, I believe I can help. I _do_ vow that I will do my utmost to save them."

Boromir turned his face away, tears glinting in his eyes, "Thank you, Aragorn. It has torn my heart to watch him suffer day after day knowing that nothing could be done."

"I understand, my friend," Aragorn said quietly as Boromir led him into his brother's room.

-ooo-

Morloth had stayed behind when Boromir escorted Aragorn to see Lady Éowyn, knowing that Hedron could better answer questions about her condition.

Now the ranger reappeared in her ward doorway, with Boromir close behind. "You were right about Faramir, Morloth, I must see to him with all speed," he told her, his face drawn and grim.

"You must be weary, Aragorn," she asked, suspecting he had little time to rest after the battle, "would you like to eat or sleep a little before beginning?"

He shook his head regretfully, "Would that I could, but time is running out for the three I have just seen." Aragorn met her eyes; one brow raised inquiringly, "What would be most beneficial for me is to learn whether there is any _athelas_ available."

"Oh! Of course!" she exclaimed. "The verse was all about _athelas _and I foolishly let your coming drive that from my mind." Morloth led Aragorn to a cabinet on one side of the ward; she pulled open a drawer to reveal that it was filled with the herb. "After I saw how you applied it to Boromir's wounds I asked the Warden to arrange for a regular supply. I have been using it, but when the siege cut off shipments from Lossarnach I decided to preserve what was left in case of greater need." She looked up, her face anxious, "It is a few days old, I hope it will still serve."

Aragorn chuckled, his eyes warm, "'Foolish' is not how I would describe someone so sensible and foresightful! Having this may make the difference between life and death for Faramir and the others."

"Really?" she asked in surprise. "How will you use it?"

"For this purpose the scent is most efficacious, and for that I need steaming water. If you would be so good as to provide some and bring it to Faramir's room when it is ready, I would be most grateful."

"I will see to it immediately," Morloth assured him, and disappeared to arrange for the water to be heated. In the meantime, Boromir escorted Aragorn back to Faramir's room. He was as Aragorn left him, pale and covered in sweat, but so still he hardly seemed to breathe.

Boromir's breath caught in is throat on seeing him again, and he turned anguished eyes to the ranger. "Aragorn, what could have caused this?" he asked plaintively. "The arrow wound was small and healed readily; I do not understand why he is still so weak and fevered."

"Morloth removed the arrow?" Aragorn asked.

"Aye," Boromir nodded. "It was a bolt like thousands of others the Haradrim used during the battle with no indication it was poisoned. Morloth said it was challenging to remove, but there was no reason to expect this would happen."

"If he was only affected by the arrow wound he would indeed have recovered by now. I suspect that weariness, grief over your father's treatment of him, and worry over you all had a role to play." Aragorn looked up to meet Boromir's eyes, "To your knowledge did he come in close contact with the Nazgûl?"

"Twice that I know of," Boromir replied, his face grim, "and perhaps on other occasions while he was defending Osgiliath."

The ranger nodded, "His will is strong, but he was fighting against the shadow's influence long before the arrow struck him down. Would that I had come sooner." Seeing Boromir's distress, he hastened to reassure him, "But do not despair, my friend, I think it is not too late."

Aragorn sat next to Faramir and laid a hand on his brow, then closed his eyes and called Faramir's name. As time went on it seemed to Boromir that his friend was engaged in some great struggle to call his brother back to life. His face grew gray with weariness, now and again calling Faramir's name.

Morloth entered quietly and touched Boromir on the shoulder. "The water is heated," she whispered to him. "Should I bring it in now?"

Boromir looked at Aragorn uncertainly, "I…I do not know. Do you think that interrupting might do one or both of them harm?"

At that moment Aragorn sighed and pulled away from Faramir. He turned, obviously having heard them speak, "Thank you, Morloth. Please bring in the water, if you may."

"Is he...?" Boromir asked with his heart in his eyes.

"I believe the worst is over," Aragorn told him, shaking his head. "But it was a near thing." And so it seemed to Boromir that his brother breathed more easily, though he did not awaken.

When Morloth returned with the steaming water, Aragorn took two _athelas_ leaves in his hands, breathed on them and crushed them before dropping them in the water. Immediately the room filled with a scent that caused all their hearts to lift, calling to mind fresh dewy mornings in a spring meadow. Aragorn set the basin of water near the bed, and bathed Faramir's brow with a cloth soaked with the water.

"Call to him, Boromir," Aragorn said quietly.

Boromir sat in a chair near the bed and took Faramir's hand in his. "Faramir! Faramir, come back! Return to those who love you and would not be parted from you."

At first, nothing happened, but then suddenly to Boromir's delight Faramir stirred and took a deep breath and another. "Faramir!" he called again, his heart filling with hope. Faramir's hand tightened on his and he felt his throat close with happiness as Faramir struggled to open his eyes.

"Boromir," his brother rasped, and his eyes focusing on Boromir. His mouth curved into a smile, "It seems that the Bear Brothers will not be parted after all."

Tears streamed down Boromir's face as he pressed Faramir's hand to his chest. "Never again, little brother."

Faramir sobered, "Brother, how long has it been? What has happened?"

"You have been unconscious for two days—since the beginning of the siege," Boromir told him. "But the siege is over now, and we prevailed. What do you recall?"

"It's…it's all a jumble. My last clear memory is the retreat across the Pelennor. I remember something with Father, though I can make little sense of it. And you, of course; I heard your voice speaking to me, calling me. I…I wanted to answer you, go to you, but all was in shadow and I could not find you." He looked up at his brother, his eyes filled with wonder. "Then _he_ came. The King. I knew who he was, though I know not how. He called to me, and the shadows parted."

Boromir noted that Aragorn had slipped from the room, so he smiled at Faramir and said, "Aye, Aragorn was here, and he called you back."

"But how can I lie abed when the King has returned?" Faramir asked plaintively.

"You will meet him soon, I am certain," Morloth told him. She laid a gentle hand on his brow and found that his fever was entirely gone. "It was his wish that you rest in bed for at least two days. I agree it would be wise; you spent your strength fighting the fever—and the shadow of Mordor—for many days."

"Sleep, brother, I will be here when you awaken," Boromir assured him as Faramir's eyes closed in sleep.

-ooo-

Aragorn smiled to himself, warmed by the brothers' reunion as he quietly left Faramir's room. He made his way to Éowyn and found Éomer in close conversation with Gandalf.

The new king of Rohan looked up when he entered, Éomer's expression one of nervous anticipation. The ranger joined him by the bed and gazed down at Éowyn, pale and still. "Her shield arm has been well tended and will heal in due course," Aragorn assured him. "But the chief evil came through the sword arm that struck the Witch-King. Alas, he was a foe far beyond her strength and it is marvel that she still lives." He sighed, "Yet it pains me to speak of her, for I fear I had a role, however unwitting, in setting her feet on the path that led her here. But I also sense that her malady began far earlier than my arrival." His eyes met Éomer's, as if searching for answers there.

"I hold you blameless in this matter, Aragorn," Éomer told him gruffly, tears standing in his eyes, "though it was only when she first looked upon you that I realized she had been touched by frost. She shared much with me over the last year or more; anger over Wormtongue's influence, concern for our uncle's weakness, and finally, grief for our cousin. But how did those cares bring her to this end?"

"Éomer," Gandalf said gently, "you had feats of arms and the freedom to go where and when you wished. Your sister, born with a spirit and courage the match of yours, was doomed to watch with growing fear a man she loved like a father falling, it seemed to her, into a dishonored dotage. Is it any wonder she grew to feel bitter and constrained; little more than a prop to your uncle's faltering steps as the walls closed around her?"

Éomer turned away, pain etched on his face.

Aragorn laid a hand on his shoulder, "Take heart, Éomer, she lives still and I believe it is within my power to lift the shadow from her. But if she is to be completely healed she must be well in body _and_ mind. Whether she will wake to hope or despair I cannot say, but know that is you she loves truly, and you will she need in days to come."

He bent near her face and placed a hand on her brow, pale and cold. "Éowyn, Éomund's daughter, awake!" he called. "The shadow has passed away and a new day dawns!"

Éomer could see that Éowyn was breathing more deeply, and watched as Aragorn crushed two athelas leaves and dropped them into a bowl of steaming water. Once again the clean, warm scent of the herb filled the air. Aragorn bathed her brow and her right arm, lying lifeless on the coverlet, with the scented water. "Awake!" he called again. "Éowyn, Lady of Rohan!" Her put her hand in Éomer's, and said him, "Call her!" before slipping silently from the chamber.

"Éowyn, Éowyn!" her brother called before lifting her hand, now warm to the touch, to his lips.

Her eyes fluttered open and she gazed at Éomer in surprise and joy, "Éomer! It is you, alive! I…I was told you were slain! Wait…no…" she continued, "that was only the voices in the darkness. But what of our uncle? I saw him fall; surely that was no dream."

"No," Éomer told her, "you remember that truly. But he died bravely and now lies in honor here in the Citadel."

She was silent for a moment, tears coursing down her cheeks. "I…I grieve for him, and know you must as well. At least he died as he would have wished to, which is more than I had hoped for when his mind was in the thrall of Wormtongue." She paused for a moment, "Brother, what of Meriadoc the halfling? Please tell me him lives, for he fought valiantly."

"He lies nearby," Gandalf explained, "and I go to him now. But you must heal, so rest, and dwell not on darkness and grief. Éomer will stay with you."

"Very well," she sighed, "though I do not know what life awaits me now that the king is gone."

-ooo-

Pippin's anxious face turned toward Aragorn as soon as he entered Merry's room. It seemed to him that his cousin had grown more gray and still in just the short time since Aragorn had arrived and he worried he might not survive. "Boromir says that Faramir is awake now, Strider; do you think you can help poor old Merry as well?"

Aragorn smiled reassuringly, "He has taken a hurt like that of the Lady Éowyn, daring to strike such an evil creature. But though he is weary and cold now, I am certain he will recover. His spirit is too strong and joyful to be weighed down long by grief."

For a third time Aragorn breathed on the _athelas_ leaves he had brought with him, and crushed them, dropping them into a bowl of steaming water at Merry's bedside. As the scent filled the room Aragorn laid his hand on Merry's head and called his name.

Merry stirred and stretched in response, then his eyes fluttered open and the cried, "Strider, how good it is to see you! Oh, am I hungry! What time is it?"

"Merry!" Pippin exclaimed, his eyes bright. "It's well past suppertime, I think, but I can bring you something from the kitchen if you like."

Aragorn smiled, "I'm sure they will be happy to oblige such a valiant and honored Rider of Rohan."

"Really?" Merry asked in surprise. "Well, then, a meal and a smoke will do nicely."

Gandalf had just entered the room, and he snorted in amusement. "Trust a hobbit to desire food and a pipe above all else!"

Pippin noticed that Merry face's had fallen, "What's wrong, Merry?"

"I just remembered that he wanted to learn about pipeweed—the king—and now I won't have a chance to speak to him again," Merry said, tears standing in his eyes.

Gandalf smiled gently, "Théoden King was a good man with a kind heart who kept his oaths. Smoke then, and think of him."

Aragorn excused himself, and when he entered the hallway, found Boromir and Morloth standing near Faramir's door. They both tensed when they saw him, and an uneasy look passed between them.

Before he could inquire if something was amiss, a figure appeared in Faramir's doorway, and a voice long unheard but well remembered said, "So _finally_ I meet the man who has stolen the love of both my sons."

He looked up to meet Denethor's gaze; the other man's face was outwardly calm but his eyes were filled with barely concealed fury. After a long moment he spoke again, the venom in his voice unmistakable, "But it is not the first time we have met, is it, _Thorongil_?"


	28. Chapter 28

_The confrontation between Denethor and Aragorn may not be quite as dramatic as some of you expected, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless - this is the outcome that seemed right to me. FYI, Boromir's memory of Thorongil was inspired by a really beautiful illustration by Catherine Chmiel showing Ecthelion, Thorongil and Boromir as a very young boy. It's posted on 'the one ' as well as other sites so you can probably find it if you search. _

_You're very likely going to hate me for the end of the chapter-sorry!_

* * *

Chapter 28

Beside her, Morloth heard Boromir gasp at the name 'Thorongil'. When she glanced his way, she saw that his eyes were wide and his face pale.

"No!" he exclaimed softly.

She vaguely recalled the same name mentioned by her father many years before, but she did not understand why hearing it now affected Boromir so strongly.

Denethor continued speaking to Aragorn, his eyes hard, "And now you come here, claiming another name as your own…"

Aragorn glanced at Boromir and sighed, "It _is_ my own, my lord, and I think you understand why I felt it necessary to use another when last I was in Gondor."

"So it is true? You kept this from me?" Boromir asked, clearly shaken by the revelation. Before Aragorn could respond he turned to his Uncle Imrahil, who had followed his father out of Faramir's room, demanding, "Did _you_ know this?"

To Morloth's eyes, Imrahil looked as shocked by the news as Boromir. He shook his head, "I swear I did not, Boromir. My father knew Thorongil well and greatly admired him, but I was left behind to rule Dol Amroth in his stead when he traveled to the city. I have seen Thorongil once from afar, that is all."

Denethor snorted derisively, "_Now_ do you see, my son, how foolish it would be to trust the fate of Gondor to such a man?"

Boromir stiffened at his father's gibe, "All I have heard tell of Thorongil is that he was an honorable man and a skilled commander, and I know that of Aragorn as well."

"You would take his word over that of your own father?" Denethor sputtered indignantly.

Boromir met his father's eyes steadily, "When one man tries to kill my brother and the other heals him, it is not difficult to decide which one has earned my trust."

"You blind fool!" Denethor hissed in reply. He rounded on Aragorn, "I should kill you where you stand for what you have done! _He_ may stand idly by while the House of Húrin is supplanted, but I can assure you I will not!" Denethor lunged toward the ranger, a wild gleam in his eyes, but before he could come too near Imrahil grasped his arm in a firm grip and Boromir stepped between his father and Aragorn.

"You will do _nothing_!" Boromir growled, his face hard.

"The Council will hear of this outrage!" Denethor cried, eye-to-eye with his son.

Boromir glanced away and sighed heavily, "No doubt." He turned to address Imrahil, "Uncle, I believe it is time for Father to return to his suite. Would you be so kind as to escort him there?"

"Of course, Boromir," Imrahil replied. "Come along, Denethor."

The former Steward did not protest, but made a disgusted noise before sweeping imperiously out of room.

"My pardon, Aragorn;" Boromir said formally, "my father wished to see Faramir and I could not in good conscience refuse—as long as he was suitably supervised, of course," he added, a note of bitterness in his voice. "He is not a prisoner, after all."

"Please, do not apologize, Boromir," Aragorn said, his eyes bleak. "I see now that I erred in not telling you sooner that I served with your grandfather under another name."

"Then why did you not?" Boromir asked, his eyes intent on Aragorn's face.

Aragorn passed a hand over his face, and said wearily, "It was nearly 40 years ago, Boromir, and you had barely begun to walk when I left. I had no reason to think that you would remember, and given your father's feelings toward me, it seemed wiser to not bring it up."

Boromir snorted, "I think you underestimate how…_memorable_ 'Thorongil' was, Aragorn. My grandfather spoke of you often in his last years, and many of the older soldiers told tales of your deeds."

Aragorn shook his head, "That may be." A little hesitantly, he reached out and laid his hand on Boromir's shoulder. "I can only say again that I am sorry if learning of this caused you pain. On my honor, it was never my intent to deceive you."

After a moment, Boromir gave him a bare nod, "Thank you, Aragorn. What will you do now?"

"I had thought to see if any more patients could use my assistance. That is, of course, if I am still welcome here. I would understand if I was not."

Boromir waved a hand dismissively, "I am not so foolish as to refuse aid to our wounded because of my bruised feelings or Father's spite. Of course you are welcome; any aid you can give would be greatly appreciated."

"The Warden would know which patients most urgently need your assistance, Aragorn," Morloth interjected.

"I will speak to him immediately," Aragorn responded. "Good night to you both."

After the ranger departed Boromir pulled Morloth close; she suspected he was still upset by what he had learned about Aragorn and needed the comfort of her touch. "What is it, Boromir?" she inquired gently. "I can see that something still troubles you."

He smoothed the hair back from her face and smiled, "You know me too well, dear lady. It's…it's just that I _am_ hurt that Aragorn did not inform me of this, but reason tells me that I have no cause to feel so! I was a tiny child when he was here as Thorongil, and I truly know nothing but good of the man. Except from my father," he added glumly, "who preferred not to speak of him at all." He shook his head, "But all that time we spent travelling together; the perils that we shared… I cannot help but feel that he could have told me… That he _should_ have told me. I know he has done nothing worthy of censure, but still…"

"Give it time, Boromir. I think the hurt will lessen when you recover from the shock of finding out as you did," Morloth said soothingly.

Boromir sighed and held her tighter, "I know."

After a moment, Morloth asked, "Do you know why your father disliked Thorongil so?"

Boromir shrugged, "Not with any certainty. Even as a child it struck me as odd; everyone else had only praise for the man. I even asked my mother why once, and she told me that I'd understand when I was older. Whatever it was, it saddened her; I remember the expression on her face."

"_Do_ you understand, now that you're older?" Morloth asked gently.

He blew out a long breath, "I suspect that my grandfather showed too much admiration for someone who was in my father's eyes an unwelcome stranger with ambitions above his station. It is likely he felt that Thorongil had taken his place in my grandfather's heart, but he might also have guessed something of Aragorn's lineage. Thorongil disappeared abruptly after his great victory in Umbar; _why_ has always been a mystery. Perhaps he knew he was the cause of strife between my father and grandfather—it was certainly not the act of a man ambitious for power; he would have been given a hero's welcome had he returned to Gondor."

Boromir looked thoughtful, "You may find it hard to credit, Morloth, but I have a dim memory that I think may be of Thorongil. I remember being in the garden with my grandfather and another man, tall and dark-haired. He picked me up and set me on his knee, and I recall that the clasp on his cloak was shaped like a star…" Boromir's eyes widened suddenly and he uttered an oath before saying, "A pin just like those worn by the Rangers in his Company—I am a fool not to have seen it before!"

"Boromir, it was a child's memory from forty years ago! It is not reasonable to expect yourself to have known Aragorn was Thorongil based on something so vague."

"I suppose you're right, Morloth," Boromir replied, looking a least a bit comforted.

She met his eyes, "Boromir, is your father likely to make trouble for you over this?"

"I think it likely he will _try_," Boromir told her dryly. "But since Aragorn has made no claim to the kingship as of yet, there is little he can do. Thorongil's success at Umbar is considered by many to be Gondor's finest victory in the last half-century; despite Father's ill will, I doubt his return will be greeted with dismay."

"That's one less thing to worry you, then," Morloth said. "You should try to get some rest, Boromir, I imagine you'll have much to do tomorrow."

He sighed and rubbed his eyes, "Yes, Gandalf wants me to call a meeting of the commanders to discuss what should be done next. I am tired, but I'm not ready to go to my bed just yet—I'd like to sit with Faramir a bit longer." He gave her a crooked smile, "Care to join me, my lady?"

"I…I suppose I could do that," she said a little hesitantly, but when he took her hand she followed him into his brother's room.

Faramir stirred and opened his eyes when they entered, "I heard raised voices, Boromir," he said, fighting sleep. "What was Father angry about?"

Boromir and Morloth exchanged a look; Boromir replied, "Nothing you should concern yourself about tonight, Fara. We'll have a long talk in the morning."

"I'll hold you to that, Boromir," Faramir said which he punctuated with a wide yawn. Moments later he was asleep, and Boromir and Morloth made themselves comfortable in seats near his bedside.

-ooo-

Boromir woke slowly, drawn out of slumber by familiar voices, one of which was trying—and failing—to speak quietly. It took a moment for him to orient himself; he was in a chair by Faramir's bedside, with one arm around Morloth as she leaned against him, fast asleep as well.

"He has to be nearby," the gruff, louder voice said, sounding exasperated. "That Warden fellow said his brother's room is here."

A quieter, more melodious voice responded, but Boromir could not hear what was said.

"I am being quiet, you dratted elf!" the first voice exclaimed. Now the speakers sounded as if they were right outside Faramir's door.

Boromir had just cleared his sleep-muddled mind enough to recognize who the two must be when the gruff voice chuckled, "Well, well, what have we here, Legolas?"

He looked up to see two well-known figures framed in the partially open door; one tall and blond, the other short, stocky and bearded. He grinned despite his irritation at being awakened, how he had missed these two! Boromir eased Morloth's head off his arm and onto the back of her chair, doing his best not to awaken her as well.

Boromir shook his head and tried vainly to look stern as he approached Legolas and Gimli. "It's past time you two showed up," he growled genially. "I was beginning to think that Aragorn had mislaid you!"

Gimli beamed as he approached. "Boromir, laddie, how good it is to see you again, and so strong and fit as well!" he exclaimed, giving Boromir a rib-cracking hug that made him wince in pain. "Aragorn told us he had spoken to you, but we had to see you with our own eyes!"

When the dwarf released him, Legolas stepped forward with a warm smile, clasping arms with the Gondorian.

But before the elf could speak, Gimli continued, bushy eyebrows raised in amusement, "As for being late, you may not have noticed, but you had a wee bit of an orc problem outside your gates. We felt it would be a good turn to help you with it, and besides," he said, his voice lowering conspiratorially, "I had to prove to the elf here, once and for all, that I am his better when it comes to orc killing. Which I most certainly _am_," he added in a decided tone, glancing sidelong at his friend.

"Simply repeating that at every opportunity does _not_ make it any more true," Legolas noted acerbically. "But I too am gratified to see you so well, my friend." His eyes met Boromir's, "It truly grieved us to leave you so terribly wounded, and we only did so because the hobbits were in such peril."

"I understand, Legolas, and do not fault your choice in the least. Think no more of it." Boromir assured him.

"Speaking of leaving you, Boromir, isn't that the lass that agreed to care for you when we left?" Gimli gestured to the still sleeping Morloth, who was visible through the partially open door to Faramir's room.

"Er…yes," Boromir told him, feeling his face heat, suspecting that they seen enough to discern how matters were between himself and Morloth.

Legolas raised an eloquent eyebrow and smiled, confirming his suspicions.

"We hoped we were leaving you in good hands," Gimli said drolly, elbowing Boromir in the ribs, "but little did we suspect _how_ good!"

Before he could respond, he heard Morloth's sleepy voice, "Boromir?"

He entered Faramir's room and took her hand, saying softly, "Sorry to awaken you, my dear, but some old friends have arrived. Please, come meet them."

Boromir brought her out to where two friends were waiting. "Morloth, you may remember Legolas and Gimli."

It was immediately apparent to Boromir that Morloth was not easy with the situation she found herself in, and her discomfort only heightened when Gimli grinned at her and said, "Well, lassie, Boromir's health and spirits have improved dramatically since we left, and it seems that we have you to thank." He gave her a knowing look, bushy eyebrows raised, that caused her to blush.

"It was no bother, I was glad to help," Morloth stammered.

"Ha!" Gimli snorted, "Remember that we traveled with this lout for many months, we know how troublesome he can be. Snores like…"

"Gimli!" Legolas, hissed, noting that Morloth seemed increasingly embarrassed by the direction of the conversation.

"What?" the dwarf asked, bewildered.

"I…I have patients I must attend to," Morloth said quickly. "Please excuse me," she added, dropping a quick curtsey before hurrying toward the ward.

"Hmph, more skittish than I remembered," Gimli said, watching her retreating back.

Boromir and Legolas exchanged an exasperated glance at Gimli's lack of discretion, but Boromir also wondered why indeed Morloth had been so disturbed by the dwarf's remarks.

Resolving to speak to her at the first opportunity, he turned to the two friends, "I believe there are some hobbits who would like to see you. Shall I take you to Merry's room?"

They agreed enthusiastically with this plan and he led them away.

-ooo-

_Deciding_ to speak to Morloth at the first opportunity proved to be easier than putting that plan into action; Boromir could find Morloth in none of her usual haunts the next morning.

In frustration, he pressed Beregond for information. "She did not accompany me this morning, my lord," the guardsman explained, "I believe she is not due back to the Houses until close to midday." He shrugged, "She may have gone to visit Cirlan, I know she has not seen him in several days."

Boromir was vaguely disgruntled she had not told him her plans, though he could certainly not fault her for wanting to see her son. But if truth be told, he was both eager and nervous to see her again. Now that the immediate danger from Mordor was past he was feeling some urgency to settle matters between them. However, at Gandalf's urging he had called a council of war leaders for an hour past midday to consider their next actions, which made his search all the more urgent.

To Beregond's barely concealed amusement and the consternation of the other healers, Boromir found himself haunting her ward awaiting her arrival. When she finally did appear, Boromir had been called away to deal with some urgent—and petty—matter, and found her fully engaged with her patients on his return. Consequently, it was only shortly before the hour that the council was scheduled to begin that he was finally able to speak to her alone.

All the private rooms in the Houses were full, so he led her to an unoccupied meeting chamber nearby. "Boromir," she protested in a low voice, "this is not at all wise. I fear that the other healers suspect there is something between us. Behaving in this way will only confirm their suspicions."

"I know, and I am sorry for that, my love. But I have little time; we will be soon deciding what our next actions will be in war against Sauron, and I felt I must speak to you first. I know too," Boromir went on, clasping her hand in both of his, "that it disturbed you that Legolas and Gimli discerned how I feel for you. But thankfully," he said, smiling warmly, "that is a problem easily solved."

Morloth stiffened and pulled her hand from his grasp. "I…I understand, Boromir, that it would not be suitable for our relationship to become generally known." She turned away, her face pale, "Once Faramir is well there will be no reason for us to spend time together, and the rumors will die down eventually."

Boromir stared at her in surprise, 'What? You…you think I want to stop seeing you?" He turned her so she faced him again cupped her chin in his hand. "Morloth, no, that's not at all what I meant!" He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile, but his heart was beating furiously in his chest. "Morloth, my lady…my love, I want you to _marry_ me. If we are betrothed none of the whispers will matter. But more importantly, I love you with all my heart and there is nothing I want more in this world than for you to be my wife and the mother of my children."

To Boromir's dismay, Morloth pulled away from him as if horrified by his proposal. She stared at him in silence for a moment and before gasping, "Oh, _no_, Boromir." She turned away, her face a mask of misery and she cried, "You know I cannot marry you and you must not ask me."

At first he was too shocked to respond; it felt as if all the air had left his body. He stared at her in confusion, "I know nothing of the sort, Morloth! Surely this was not a surprise; I have declared my love for you, it would be dishonorable not to declare my intentions as well!"

"I never thought you would be so foolish as to actually propose, Boromir!" She glanced up at him briefly, her eyes glinting with tears. "I…I know you are trying to behave honorably, but you should consider yourself released from any obligation to me."

"I don't feel _obliged_, I love you!" Thoroughly baffled and heartsick, he reached toward her and said beseechingly, "Morloth, I…I don't understand. Why won't you marry me?"

"I cannot!" Morloth repeated. She burst into tears and ran from the room, the door banging closed behind her.


	29. Chapter 29

_Sorry this is a little late, various RL complications got in the way. Lots of Fellowship stuff in this chapter-hope you enjoy it!_

_By the way, this story has been favorited by a number of new readers recently...I'd very much appreciate a review if you're enjoying it. (And of course I love my faithful, long-time reviewers as well!)_

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Chapter 29

Boromir stared at the door for a long moment, gathering his wits after Morloth's precipitous departure. He yanked it open to be greeted by the startled faces of Beregond and the other guardsman. Morloth was nowhere in sight.

He was pondering what to do next when Beregond said stiffly, "My lord, we have had word that the council you called is assembled." The guardsman's tone caught Boromir's attention, when he met his eyes he perceived immediately that Beregond was positively radiating disapproval.

With a growl of frustration he told Beregond curtly, "You. Inside."

As soon as the door closed behind them he turned to the guardsman and said, "I know how it appears but there's no cause to glare at me so, Beregond."

Beregond's response was rigidly formal, "My lord, I would not presume to pass judgment on your actions."

Boromir gave a bitter laugh and began to furiously pace the room, needing an outlet to ease his heartache. "Of course you do, I would too under the circumstances." A chair unlucky enough to be in his path received a hearty kick before the Lord Steward spoke again, "I'll have you know that I asked Morloth to marry me. She said she couldn't and ran out of the room crying."

Beregond blinked in astonishment for a moment before stammering, "You…you asked her to marry you, my lord? And she said _no_?"

Boromir abruptly stopped pacing and threw himself into a cushioned chair, sighing in frustration and dismay. "Beregond, you are her friend, why won't she marry me?" he asked, his voice cracking. He passed a hand over his face. "I love her, and I had thought that she loves me as well."

"My lord, in truth I can think of no reason why she would refuse you. We…my wife Aerin and I, well…" Beregond reddened and shifted uncomfortably before continuing, "we hoped you would speak now that your father can no longer object." He shook his head, "Aerin would certainly have told me if Morloth had expressed any doubts to her. But I…I suppose I can try to find out her reason for refusing you, if you like."

"Do that," Boromir growled. "Damn it all, I'm late for the council." He shook his head in vexation as he stood and headed toward the door, "I never thought the prospect of marrying me would be quite so horrifying."

Beregond snorted in amusement, "I believe that most would feel that it was not, my lord."

-ooo-

Morloth took a deep breath to calm herself before opening the door to Éowyn's room. The shieldmaiden's healer, her friend Hedron, had pleaded with Morloth to speak to her.

"She is extremely restless and not at all inclined to heed our instructions," Hedron explained. "The lady insists that she is well enough to leave her bed, despite the fact that the Lord Aragorn has bid her to stay abed for a few more days. I do not wish to bother him over so small a matter, can you not reason with her, as one woman to another?"

"Hedron, I don't know why _that_ would make a difference; surely Lord Aragorn would not mind speaking to her…"

"I am told he is in conference for the next few hours and cannot be disturbed. The lady has asked for her clothes and wishes to rise immediately. Will you please try to dissuade her from taking any rash action, Morloth?"

"Very well," Morloth had replied, exasperated. In truth, however, she felt anything but equal to the task. Emotions still raw from her conversation with Boromir earlier, she would have much preferred to find a private place for a good cry. Instead, she schooled her features into her most calm and confident expression and opened the door.

Éowyn of Rohan was sitting up in bed, one arm in a sling. She sighed impatiently when she heard Morloth enter. "At last!" she exclaimed, "I…oh!" Catching sight of an unknown woman in her room she stopped abruptly, demanding, "Who are you? Did you bring my clothes?"

Morloth gave her an appraising look before answering. As reported, she was certainly beautiful, with pale skin and a slender grace that most men would find enticing. Her hair was glorious; silky and golden—sure to be the envy of all the noble ladies of Gondor. Morloth quickly suppressed a stab of pain, recalling ruefully that this was the woman that Lord Denethor had pressed Boromir to marry. Now he would be free to do so if he wished.

"I am Morloth, Hedron requested that I speak to you," she finally replied. "My lady, I know it is difficult to lie abed, dependent on others when you feel that you could be up and active," Morloth said sympathetically, for she had many patients express the same sentiments to her. "But it is vital that you heed the advice of your healer. Your body needs rest after all you have been through." She smiled brightly, "In a day or two you may pay a brief visit to the gardens, if you wish…"

Éowyn crossed her arms, a mulish expression on her face. "I should have known that you would be no help either. Why will no one _listen_ to me?"

The healer swallowed her irritation and said calmly, "My lady, we _are_ listening, but it is the judgment of the healers here—and Lord Aragorn—that you are as yet too weak for any but the lightest activity…"

"I will be the judge of that!" the younger woman replied hotly. "There must be someone who can overrule the healers' decision." Her face lit, and she asked, "What of Lord Boromir, I understand he is Lord Steward now. He is also a good friend of my brother's," she added a little smugly. "Please ask him to attend me."

Morloth's heart sank; the last thing she wanted was to face Boromir again so soon. He was certain to press her for an explanation for her refusal. She thought furiously; Boromir was in conference for now…perhaps there was an alternative she could offer instead.

With sudden inspiration, she remembered Faramir; not only was he close by, but his charm and gentle demeanor might be just what was needed to placate the angry shieldmaiden. "Lady Éowyn," she replied, "Lord Boromir is taking counsel with the other war leaders, including your brother and Lord Aragorn, and will not be available for some time. You will have to wait until he is free. But I suppose…" she continued, letting a note of doubt creep into her voice, "you _could_ speak to Lord Boromir's younger brother, Faramir. He was injured during the battle and is nearby in this very house."

Her ploy worked as she had hoped; the blonde woman nodded decisively, "Yes, that will do, ask Lord Faramir to attend me."

Hiding a smile, Morloth replied meekly, "Yes, my lady."

-ooo-

Boromir had honestly not known what to expect from the council he had called at Gandalf's request—in fact they had no truly good courses of action to pursue in the fight against Sauron. Gondor had survived the first siege by the skin of its teeth and the timely arrival of allies; given the numbers that the Dark Lord could still throw against the walls of Minas Tirith it seemed highly unlikely they could survive another.

Consequently, Gandalf's proposal to take the battle to the Black Gate was a surprise, but a welcome one to Boromir. It was a mad scheme, even suicidal, but it suited his current mood far better than cowering behind the city walls waiting for the end.

Once it was determined which forces would journey to Mordor and which should stay to defend the city, the council dispersed to begin preparations. Boromir paused at the door and caught the attention of Aragorn and Prince Imrahil.

"Aragorn, I must insist on one stipulation for the plan of battle," he said. The ranger gave Boromir a surprised look but motioned for him to continue. "This is no reflection on you, Uncle," he assured Imrahil, "but I intend to take command of Gondor's forces marching to the Black Gate. Faramir has not recovered sufficiently to accompany us, but he is well enough to command the city's defenses in my absence."

Prince Imrahil looked startled for a moment, then murmured, "Of course, Boromir, I would be happy to defer to you if that is your wish."

Aragorn gazed at Boromir thoughtfully, "I cannot deny your right to command, nor do I question your experience or ability. My sole concern is whether you have sufficiently recovered from your injuries. You were able to fight well enough during the siege, but this battle is likely to be far longer and more grueling…"

Boromir met his eyes and said simply, "Try me." At Aragorn's surprised look, he clarified, "Meet me in the practice ring. We have sparred often enough in the past that you should be able to determine whether my skills are close to what they were. Boromir grinned, "Unless, of course, you're _afraid_…"

Aragorn's eyes narrowed and an answering grin spread across his face, "You, my friend, are _on_."

Legolas and Gimli had been lingering nearby, watching the exchange. The dwarf chuckled, rubbing his hands together in anticipation, "Oh ho, this should be good!"

Legolas raised an eyebrow and replied, "Indeed, I am also quite looking forward to it."

Boromir led Aragorn to the nearest practice ring, accompanied by a number of onlookers who were clearly relishing the prospect of seeing two such renowned warriors spar.

Before they could take their places in the ring, Imrahil addressed them, "I will not try to dissuade you from this, but I do insist that you use practice weapons. There is far too much at stake to risk either of you being seriously injured, however unintentionally."

Boromir grimaced but did not argue; he and Aragorn had sparred with live steel many times during their travels, but knew that his uncle was correct. Putting aside Anduril and Boromir's weapon, they each chose a blunted sword before stepping into the ring.

After a few warm-ups strokes, they were ready to start. As their swords touched for the ritual greeting, Aragorn paused and met Boromir's eyes, chuckling, "You know, Boromir, that I have absolutely no authority to keep you from accompanying us in any capacity you desire. If you wish, you can simply command it to be so."

Boromir snorted, the challenge in his eyes unmistakable, "I know, but where is the enjoyment in that?"

Imrahil rolled his eyes tolerantly and dropped his hand, crying, "Gentlemen, _begin_!"

Their swords met with a loud crash, and the two men traded blows, circling each other in search of an opening. It was no surprise to any of the spectators who had seen Boromir spar before that he advanced first; he had ever been a bold and aggressive fighter.

Aragorn met his blows with a smile and pushed back his attack, and soon they settled into a rhythm of attack and counterattack. As was to be expected from two combatants of such similar size, skill and experience, any advantage one might press must wait until the other tired or made an error, so they fought on.

The ranger was soon lost in the dance of stroke and counterstroke; thoroughly enjoying the experience of sparring with a skilled opponent whose fighting style he knew so well. So far, he had seen no sign of weakness in Boromir's attacks or defense, though he did note that his left arm was held rather stiffly at his side. Aragorn was just contemplating whether and how he might exploit this vulnerability and so was not paying full attention when meeting the Gondorian's attacks. Suddenly, his counterstroke went wide, meeting empty air rather than Boromir's blade where it by all rights _should_ have been. Instead of continuing to advance Boromir had taken a step back, catching him off guard. Aragorn staggered and had to sidestep quickly to avoid the next stroke, so close it brushed the cloth of this tunic.

"A touch!" Gimli exclaimed gleefully from the sidelines.

"Not quite," Boromir countered, though the smile on his face said clearly that he knew how near it had been.

"Close enough," Aragorn agreed. "Well done, my friend."

Now it was apparent that Boromir had indeed adapted his fighting style to accommodate his injuries. Instead of continually pressing the attack as he had previously, he began to intersperse his strikes with occasions when he paused and waited to react to Aragorn's move. The ranger immediately saw the advantage of this change; not only was it unpredictable and harder for an opponent to read, but it was less tiring for Boromir since it allowed him brief moments of rest.

The bout continued, with neither man able to gain the upper hand. A short while later, their swords met and caught, bringing the men into a close grapple; too near that either could use their sword effectively. Boromir reacted instinctively, pushing hard with his shield arm to separate himself from his opponent as he had done countless times before. He immediately regretted it as pain flashed through his shoulder and arm. A hiss slipped through his teeth and he staggered back a step, barely getting his blade up in time to meet Aragorn's.

The ranger paused, "Boromir?" he asked, his face drawn in worry.

"I'm fine," Boromir answered tersely.

Aragorn nodded and brought his blade up to guard once again. After a few more exchanges he held up a hand and smiled, saying, "I've seen enough."

It was all Boromir could do not to groan in gratitude for the reprieve; this was the longest he'd held a blade since Amon Hen; his left side and shoulder were on fire, his energy reserves almost depleted. But if Aragorn realized how spent he felt, the ranger gave no sign.

He clapped Boromir on the back as they moved to join the onlookers, "A truly remarkable recovery, Boromir. And to think you were wounded near to death not two fortnights ago!"

Boromir let out a long breath in relief, although he knew it was in the end his decision whether to stay in Minas Tirith or join the march to Mordor, it meant much to him that Aragorn thought him fit for battle.

"But I must confess that one thing still concerns me, my friend." Aragorn continued, shaking his head, "Your shield side is not completely healed—which is only natural, of course, given the severity of your wounds. It obviously still causes you pain when struck, which could easily happen in battle either by chance or intent. I wish there was a way to protect it."

Boromir grimaced ruefully, hating to admit any weakness but knowing that pretending this one did not exist was the height of folly. "Aye, I know, but what can be done? My arm and shoulder are still too weak to bear the weight of my shield; I am told it may take as long as another month before I can hold it easily." He snorted, "The healers suggested wearing a sling to prevent my arm from being jostled and wrenching my shoulder, but if I were to wear one in battle nothing would tell an opponent more clearly of my vulnerability on that side." He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, "It's maddening, just when I most need my shield for protection I cannot use it!"

Legolas and Gimli had joined them, and the dwarf snorted dismissively, "Laddie, you may not be able to bear the weight on your shield arm, but that doesn't mean you can't use your shield!"

Boromir stared at him in surprise, "What…what do you mean, Gimli?"

"It's just a matter of how you carry the weight," he explained. He motioned to get the attention of one of the men who had been at the training ring when they had arrived, and had lingered to watch the bout. "You!" Gimli called, "Bring me stout piece of leather, about two fingers wide and two arms-lengths long. And a shield, too, a good heavy one."

At Boromir's nod, the man hurried off to find the items that Gimli requested, and soon returned with a shield and a piece of heavy leather strapping, such as might be used for a sword belt or baldric. While the group watched with keen interest, Gimli threaded the leather strap through the arm grips on the inside of the shield. He held the shield out to Boromir and had him don it, carefully holding it so the weight of the shield did not fall on the Gondorian's injured arm.

"Boromir is a bit tall for me to reach his shoulder, so if one of you could assist…"

Aragorn grinned, saying, "I see what needs to be done," and stepped up to pull the ends of the leather strap over Boromir's uninjured right shoulder and held them so the shield was in a comfortable position on his arm.

Boromir chuckled, "It's a sling, by Eru!"

Gimli met his eyes, his face merry, "Indeed it is, but for your shield rather than your arm. It should protect your arm without straining it, and no one will be the wiser that you've been wounded on that side."

With some experimentation, Boromir found that he could move the shield easily within the limits of the leather strap with little stress on his arm. Watching him, Gimli noted, "You won't be able to move it quite as freely as before, but it's still a sight better than nothing, I'd wager. Come back later with your armor and shield; your armorer can add a buckle or the like so you can adjust it as best suits you."

Boromir glanced up at him, eyes bright, "This is wonderful, Gimli! You have my deepest thanks, my friend."

The dwarf waved a hand dismissively, "Ach, it was a simple problem." He rocked back on his heels with his thumbs in his belt and cast a sidelong glance at Legolas. "Elves are fine if you need to sing to trees or frolic with wee woodland creatures, but for a problem of bearing weights, ask a dwarf!"

Legolas glared at him, torn between outrage and amusement. He finally confined himself to rolling his eyes in exasperation while the others made a valiant attempt to hide their merriment.

Obviously relishing a chance to show his expertise, Gimli continued, "You will likely need someone to help you don this rig, especially until you become more accustomed to it." He chuckled, "But I believe you know a young Guard of the Citadel who is on fire to prove himself on the battlefield. I reckon he'd be happy to serve as your squire."

Aragorn snorted, "Pippin? Yes, that seems likely."

A new voice added, "It is also fitting that the Shirefolk should be represented at the Black Gate along with the other goodly peoples. It is their fight too, after all." Halbarad strode up to join them, saying with a wry smile, "I came to escort my captain from the council session, but to my surprise I was directed here."

Boromir nodded in welcome, it was the first time he'd seen the ranger since their notable meeting on the battlefield the day before. Addressing him, Halbarad added, "An impressive performance, my lord. There are few indeed who can put Aragorn through his paces as you did, even well and hale."

The Lord Steward waved off his praise, but it was clear he was warmed by it. "My thanks, Halbarad." He motioned with the arm that still held the borrowed shield, "I am more than ready for the day when none of this will be necessary."

"No doubt," the ranger chuckled. He met Boromir's eyes, "I had hoped to see you, my lord, for I feel I failed to sufficiently express my thanks for your timely intervention yesterday." When Boromir began to protest, Halbarad held up a hand, adding, "I am told that there is a tavern here that brews the finest ale in the Southlands. However, I have grave doubts that it would best the ale served at the Prancing Pony in Bree. Now, if you'd like a chance to defend the honor of Gondorian brews, I'd be happy to accompany you to try a few by way of comparison. My treat, of course."

Boromir grinned and clasped his arm, "I spoke truly when I said no thanks are necessary, but I also know a challenge when I hear one! I would be a poor Steward indeed if I failed to champion the quality of our ale. Shall we meet later this evening?"

They fixed a time and a place between them to assemble that evening, and Halbard departed with his Captain to discuss the outcome of the council. Boromir sighed to himself, contemplating the rest of the day's activities. He knew his first priority must be to speak to Imrahil and the other senior Gondorian officers to finalize arrangements for the march to Mordor and the defense of Minas Tirith. After that, however, he was determined to get some answers from a certain beautiful but maddeningly recalcitrant healer.


	30. Chapter 30

_Sorry this update is a little later than usual, but I hope the fact has it has LOTS OF FARAMIR should help make up for it. (Faramir *and* Eowyn, no less!) Now I KNOW there are some big Faramir fans among my readers, and we've seen very little of him lately, alas. So enjoy!_

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Chapter 30

Tried beyond endurance, Éowyn hurled the book with all her strength against the wall across from her bed. Her timing was unfortunate; just as it left her hand a man appeared in the doorway, hand raised to rap on the partially open door. After following the volume's trajectory and impact with his eyes, he turned to her, one eyebrow raised inquiringly.

"Oh!" she cried, cheeks blazing. "Please forgive me, sir. I did not see you enter."

He was a tall man with the fine features that she knew suggested Númenórean descent, but his shoulder-length hair was golden brown, lighter in hue than most Gondorians. He was wearing a soft tunic and trews made of the same material as her own gown and his right arm was in a sling, therefore clearly a patient of the Houses as well.

The man's face was somber as he bent to pick up the book, but something in the set of his mouth suggested the possibility of good humor. He glanced at the book's spine and snorted, "Normally I would be the first to protest seeing any book so misused, but in this case I believe an exception can be made."

"You know that book?" Éowyn asked, unable to conceal her astonishment.

"Gwainor's _A Gentlewoman's Guide to Courtship and Marriage_? Indeed yes, I know it well. My brother and I have whiled away many a rainy afternoon with this very volume."

"Really?" she asked incredulously, unable to imagine any man voluntarily reading such a turgid and humorless work.

He smiled wryly, his eyes bright with amusement. "When I was about ten and my brother fifteen," he explained, "we would read the choicest parts aloud and laugh ourselves sick."

At the mention of his brother Éowyn suddenly realized who the man was. "Oh, my lord, you must be Faramir, Lord Boromir's brother. I am sorry I did not recognize you," she exclaimed. "I beg your pardon for my display of ill temper. It's just that…I asked for something to read and was brought _that_," indicating the book he held with distaste. "I could not but wonder if it was meant to be a commentary of sorts."

"Ah, I see," he said, eyes widening, "a reminder of what is considered proper womanly behavior?" At her nod he gazed at her speculatively, "If I may ask, who brought you this book?"

"One of the aides, I do not know his name," Éowyn replied.

Lord Faramir smiled, his lips twitching, "Although I suppose that is _possible_ that it was meant as a reproof, I think it would take a bold person indeed to chastise the slayer of the Witch-King for unseemly conduct! I deem it far more likely that it indicates a lack of imagination and the desire to select a 'safe' choice that would not offend a delicate maiden of noble birth. Happily, however, I have access to the Citadel library, a much more extensive collection than I suspect was available to the well-intentioned person who brought you the Gwainor. Could I select a few volumes for you that might be more to your taste?" he asked earnestly.

"Oh, yes, my lord, I would like that very much!" Éowyn replied. "It is very kind of you to offer."

He smiled and bowed slightly, "It would be my pleasure, my lady. My brother would tell you that I need little excuse to lose myself in the library. Now, what else may I do to aid you? Morloth said that you wished to speak to me."

"Oh…is that the dark-haired woman?" At Faramir's nod, she continued, "It is just that there is so little for me do here, and they expect me to stay abed for several more days! I suppose I cannot expect someone like _that_ to understand—a simpering noblewoman trying to fill her empty days with 'good works'—but I cannot not bear the thought of being so long idle!" Éowyn had sensed the self-assurance beneath Morloth's mild demeanor, and had read it as the contempt that some Gondorians held for the 'barbarian' Rohirrim.

Lord Faramir stared at her in silence for a moment, blinking in apparent bemusement. Finally he shook himself, "My apologies, Lady Éowyn, I have never known Morloth to be depicted in such a way, and I was taken by surprise." He smiled gently, "I think you might find Morloth more congenial than you expect. As it happens she is _not_ a noblewoman, but a senior Healer in the Houses of Healing, one of the few women in Gondor's history to have attained that rank." He gazed into the distance contemplatively, "I think you will find her not without courage, though perhaps it is a different kind of courage than is required for feats of arms."

With a start he came to himself again and reddened, "I beg your pardon, my lady, I did not mean to imply…"

"Of course not, my lord," Éowyn quickly reassured him and felt her face heat; it was obvious that he did not mean to insult her but was instead reflecting on his own battlefield experiences. But as well, she was mortified to have misconstrued the situation so badly and slighted someone he evidently held in high regard. Although she didn't quite understand why it was so, the idea that this grave man might think her to be rude and judgmental was very upsetting.

"She is a friend of yours?" she asked quietly.

A fleeting smile crossed his face, "Yes, you could say that. I have known her for many years; her late husband served in my command in Ithilien."

Éowyn's sense of shame magnified; the woman was a war widow, and a beautiful and accomplished one at that! Before she could curb her tongue, she voiced her next thought aloud, "But…she looks like one of the Dúnedain!"

Lord Faramir seemed puzzled for a moment, then his face cleared, "Oh, I see. Is that why you thought her a noblewoman?" He snorted, apparently amused by her assumption, "Despite what many here would have you believe, not all of the blood of Westernesse is confined to the nobility of Gondor. I understand it is quite common among the Northern Dúnedain of all stations, not just Lord Aragorn and his high-born kin."

She looked away, stung by this reminder of Aragorn and his rejection of her, courteous as it was. Surely Lord Faramir knew nothing of her infatuation; it would be just too humiliating if he did.

Apparently he did not, for he continued speaking, seemingly not to have noticed her discomfort. "Regardless of her birth, besides being a skilled healer—she helped save my brother's life when he was wounded—I think you would find Morloth to be quite kind and sympathetic if there is anything you would prefer not to discuss with the male healers. Or, for that matter, if you simply wish to learn more about Gondor; I know our customs are in some ways quite different than those of the Mark," he explained earnestly.

"Thank you, my lord, I will bear that in mind," Éowyn responded, and in truth did resolve to be more hospitable if she had the opportunity to meet the healer again. From what she had heard, women's lives in Gondorian society were even more rigidly constrained than among the Rohirrim, so it intrigued her that this woman had apparently made a life for herself beyond the traditional roles of wife and mother.

"But unfortunately, my lady, I'm afraid I can do little to intervene with the healers on your behalf." He gestured to his arm in the sling, "As you can see, I am as much a prisoner to their care as you are."

Much of Éowyn anger's at her plight dissipated; this man was evidently bearing the healer's constraints on his activities with patience and dignity. Her complaints of the same treatment suddenly seemed childish and petulant. She glanced out her window, which looked out onto the rocky slopes of Mount Mindolluin; a splendid view, but not the one she craved. "I just wish my window looked east," she murmured plaintively.

Lord Faramir's face brightened, "Well, _that_ is not an unreasonable request. If you wish, I will speak to the Warden to ask that you be moved to another room. There may not be one available immediately, but I expect there will be in a day or two as patients are released."

"I would greatly appreciate that, my lord," she replied, secretly marveling that he thought there was nothing shocking or unwomanly about wishing for a view of Mordor. But then, she realized, maybe it wasn't so surprising given that in Ithilien he had labored in the very shadow of the Black Land for many years.

"It would be my pleasure," he replied gravely. "I also wonder—have you yet been given leave to walk in the gardens as I have? I know it is not the same as being released to go where and when you please, but at least you could see more of the city than the four walls of your room."

"Oh!" Éowyn exclaimed in surprise, remembering that the woman healer had indeed mentioned something of that sort, but in her anger she had forgotten it. "I…I believe your friend Morloth did say that would be allowed soon."

"Splendid!" he beamed, with a broad smile that reminded Éowyn quite strongly of his brother. Both sons of Denethor were handsome, and apparently also shared the same smile—one that many women found irresistibly attractive, at least judging by what she'd seen when Boromir had used it to great effect on the women of Rohan. "Perhaps I will see you there one day soon, and we can continue our conversation."

"I...I will look forward to that, Lord Faramir," she replied with a warm smile of her own. Suddenly, her confinement to the Houses of Healing seemed much less burdensome than it had just a few hours earlier.

-ooo-

When Faramir returned to his room, book in hand, he found his brother there, slumped disconsolately in a chair.

"And where have _you_ been?" Boromir asked in a surly tone.

"Speaking to Lady Éowyn," he replied, giving his brother an inquiring look.

Boromir's mood lightened a little and he asked, "Ah, how is she?"

Faramir sighed, a small smile crossing his face at his memory of their conversation. He found himself replying, "Lovely." Coloring slightly, he hurriedly added, "And restless. It seems that she finds idleness wearisome."

"Indeed?" Boromir responded, gazing at his brother speculatively.

Hoping to turn the discussion to another topic, Faramir handed the book he was holding to his brother, "Here, maybe this will sweeten your foul mood."

Boromir grunted and glanced at the spine of the book. To Faramir's surprise, his expression darkened immediately and he looked up to meet his brother's eyes. "Have you spoken to Morloth?" he demanded, his eyes hard.

"Yes, earlier today," Faramir answered cautiously, taken aback by the tone of the question.

Anger flared in Boromir's eyes and he sent the book hurtling to the wall across from him, "You would _mock_ me?" he roared, standing and glaring at his brother furiously.

Faramir stared at Boromir, wide-eyed; he had seen his brother angry often enough—his temper was legendary—though very seldom was it directed at _him_. But he also read his brother well enough to recognize that this time there was deep pain under the fury.

"Brother," he said urgently, "you know I would not. Tell me, what is the matter?"

"You know well enough," Boromir snarled, "you said that you spoke to her!"

"I swear I do _not_ know! Morloth simply asked me to visit Lady Éowyn!"

"Oh." To Faramir's astonishment, Boromir's anger disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. He slumped back into the chair, his head in his hands, the very picture of dejection.

He laid a hand on his brother's shoulder and said gently, "_Please_, Boromir, tell me what troubles you."

"I'm sorry, Fara, I shouldn't have lost my temper with you," Boromir said, voice muffled by his hands. "It was stupid, but I thought she told you what had happened."

Faramir just barely restrained his urge to shake his brother until he explained, but after a moment, Boromir glanced up, tears starting in his eyes, "Oh, Fara, I asked Morloth to marry me and she….she _refused_ me."

He was so shocked that he fell gracelessly to a seat on the bed near Boromir and stammered, "She…she said _no_?" And instantly regretted it, realizing it was an inane thing to say.

His brother gave him a sour look, "That _is_ what 'refused' means, as a rule."

He felt his face heat, "I'm sorry, Brother, it was not my intent to twist the knife. I'm just so _surprised_… I have known Morloth for many years and she has never shown the least interest in any man since Bregor died, until she met you. Her heart is as true and loyal as any woman I've ever met and I am _certain_ she cares for you deeply."

Evidently, Boromir's moods were alternating between despair and fury, and despair was currently in ascendance. "Apparently not," he muttered despondently.

Faramir shook his head impatiently, "No, I do not believe that." His eyes narrowed, "Did she say why she wouldn't marry you?"

Boromir sighed deeply, "She said she couldn't marry me, and that I shouldn't ask. When I pressed her for a reason, she ran out of the room crying."

His eyebrows rose, "'Could not', rather than 'would not'? And she ran away crying?" Faramir snorted, "Despite my admittedly non-existent experience with such matters, that does not sound to me like a woman spurning an importune suitor. There must be some impediment, either real or imagined, that is preventing her from accepting." He met his brother's eyes, "You need to speak to her again and convince her to tell you why she feels she cannot marry you."

"Do you take me for a fool?" Boromir asked hotly. "I know that! Immediately after we spoke I was required to attend the war council, but since then I've done nothing _but_ look for her! She is _avoiding_ me," he added through gritted teeth.

"Boromir, it can't be that difficult to find her, she spends most of her time here." Faramir chuckled, "You're the Lord Steward, by Eru, if all else fails you can send some guardsmen and force her to attend you."

His brother's eyes widened, "I could at that! I hadn't considered that before."

"By the Valar, I was _jesting_, Boromir!" Faramir choked. "I am certainly not recommending it as a course of action." He shook his head, "Be patient, no doubt you'll get an opportunity to speak to her eventually, _without_ commanding her presence."

"That is just what I cannot do," Boromir replied, passing a hand over his face wearily. "We leave for Mordor in two days and I must speak to her before then—she doesn't yet know I'm going."

Faramir gazed at his brother, brow furrowed in confusion, "Going to Mordor? Boromir, what you are blathering about? No one is going to Mordor."

Boromir started, a sheepish look on his face, "Sorry, Fara; I forgot you didn't know. Today it was decided that we should march to the Black Gate with all the troops we can spare from the defense of the city."

As Faramir listened in speechless astonishment to his brother's explanation of the decision, he pondered the level of heartache required to render a march to Mordor as a small concern in comparison. But on further thought it made sense; Boromir had faced death in battle countless times, but his was the first time he had given his heart so deeply to a _person_ rather than a country or a cause.

When he finished his tale, Faramir shook his head in wonder, "I won't pretend to _like_ the idea of spending lives in what seems to me a desperate chance, but I suppose there is no better alternative."

"Aye," Boromir agreed gloomily. "We know that Sauron has more than enough troops left to overwhelm us. So unless he suddenly forgets we are here or all his orcs drop dead tomorrow, this appears to be the best hope for a lasting victory, as unlikely as it seems."

There was a moment of silence before Boromir raised an eyebrow inquiringly, "No comment on my decision to personally lead Gondor's troops and leave you here to command our defenses? Quite unlike you, brother!"

Faramir snorted, "Why would I expect this time to be any different than the others where you put yourself at the forefront of battle? And even if I were inclined to remonstrate with you, I know better than to do so when you are in such a mood."

Boromir smiled, his eyes somber, "It means much to me that someone who has all my trust will be here to guard Gondor in my stead." He gathered his brother in his arms, "Thank you, Fara."

He pulled away with a sigh, "I must go. I promised to meet Halbarad, Aragorn's kinsman, for a drink. It seems I must tutor him on the quality of Gondorian ale," he chuckled.

Faramir grinned, his eyes alight, "Go, then, and enjoy yourself. And find Morloth to settle matters with her; Minas Tirith does not need her Lord Steward lumbering around like a bear with a toothache, frightening women and children."

Boromir laughed and clasped arms with his brother before heading out for his rendezvous with Halbarad.

He had arranged to meet the ranger near the training ring on the fifth level where he had last seen him. Boromir strode quickly through the halls, his guards following close behind, but he was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he was startled when someone addressed him.

"My Lord Boromir, a word if I may!"

Boromir turned to see the speaker and groaned inwardly when he recognized Lord Raendil, a member of the Steward's Council and one of his father's staunchest supporters. While some members—primarily the lords of major provinces—were assured a spot on the Council because of their position, others, like the Lord in question, had been appointed directly by the Steward. And to Boromir's knowledge, Lord Raendil had never once disagreed with his father's opinion on _any_ issue of import.

"What is it, Lord Raendil?" he asked curtly, in his current mood feeling not at all inclined to speak to the man any longer than necessary. "I have only a moment, I am on my way to an appointment," he added, not bothering to explain the purpose of that meeting.

"Of course, my lord, I shall not keep you," the other man said, bowing slightly. "I simply wished to mention that I am surprised that you have not yet called a meeting of the Steward's Council."

Boromir gave the man a quizzical look, "Why would you expect me do to so? You know that the Council does not routinely gather during times of war; governance of the city is left in the hands of the Steward and the senior commanders."

"But my lord, since the siege has been lifted and the danger from Mordor past…" he began.

The new Lord Steward stared at him in astonishment, eyes wide, "By Eru, you think the danger has _passed_?" The level of ignorance displayed by Lord Raendil was almost incomprehensible to Boromir and for a moment he found himself at a loss for words. Then he recalled that the man had spent the entire siege safely behind the walls of the city and his face set.

Struggling to restrain his already volatile temper, he glared at the man before replying, "I assure you that the Dark Lord has armies to spare; it is only a matter of time before we are assailed once more. You will be informed when the Council meets again in due course." He turned away, saying, "Now, if you'll excuse me…"

Before he could stalk away to find more congenial company, Lord Raendil blurted, "My lord, there was one other matter." Quailing under Boromir's impatient gaze, he explained hurriedly, "There have been rumors that a man—the Captain of the Northern Rangers—has professed to be the heir of Elendil and intends to claim the throne of Gondor…"

The fact that Boromir should have expected this line of questioning did not make it any less unwelcome and aggravating. He regarded the man impassively despite his churning emotions, "No one has made any such claim," Boromir answered evenly. "And I would suggest," he continued, his voice hardening, "that you refrain from repeating rumors that have no basis in truth."

"Of…of course, my lord," he stammered nervously, "it's just that the Lord Steward has also expressed his concerns…"

Boromir chuckled grimly to himself, the man had made a telling error indeed! "On the contrary, I can state most confidently that the _Lord Steward_ has said nothing of the sort," he replied, a dangerous edge to his voice. Boromir stepped closer and gazed down at Lord Raendil, who had realized his mistake and was now staring pale and wide-eyed at the young Steward. "I trust you will remember that in the future."

"Yes, my lord!" he squeaked, clearly petrified. He stepped back hastily and bowed low, muttering, "My pardon for disturbing you!" before all but running in the other direction.

Boromir watched him retreat and gave a mirthless snort, wondering whether he should feel regret for terrorizing the man. He thought of Lord Raendil as well-nigh witless and thoroughly under the thumb of his father, but not, he judged, an evil or ill-intentioned man. But by Eru, he was in no mood to suffer fools!

He sighed deeply before continuing on his way. He really needed a drink, preferably several strong ones.

* * *

_**Next chapter:** Boromir has that drink—several to be precise—with Halbarad and unburdens his heart. _

_As always, reviews are *greatly* appreciated! I'd especially appreciate hearing whether you all liked the F&E 'meet cute!'_


	31. Chapter 31

_Thanks so much for all the lovely reviews of the last chapter! I know you all are impatient to find out what's going on with Morloth, but there's some fun stuff with Halbarad in this chapter first._

_Hope you all enjoy it, more notes at the end!_

* * *

Chapter 31

Halbarad watched as Boromir approached, trailed by two guardsmen resplendent in White Tower livery. Although it was quite apparent from his frowning visage that the Gondorian was not in the most congenial of moods, he brightened when Halbarad came into view, and managed a wan smile.

"Well met, Halbarad!" he exclaimed, clasping the ranger's arm. He shook his head, "It is good to see you again. I have been looking forward to this all day."

Warmed by his enthusiasm, Halbarad smiled in reply, "As have I, my lord. Where are we going this evening?"

Boromir looked at him askance, "First of all, there is no 'my lord' here, tonight, at least not for you. I am Boromir, and I trust you to remember that! As for where are going, among those who know their ale, most agree that the two finest taverns in the city are the King's Jewel on the fifth level and Swan and Staff on the fourth. I prefer the latter, and not just because of the name!" he chuckled. "Gondor's nobility frequent the King's Jewel, so the chance I will meet someone I have no desire to speak to is much greater there. The Swan and Staff is a soldier's tavern patronized mostly by the city garrison and Citadel guardsmen, and," he smiled and lifted an eyebrow, "I think their brew is better."

Halbarad clapped Boromir on the shoulder, "The Swan and Staff it is then. Lead on!"

He followed Boromir toward the fourth level with the Gondorian pointing out landmarks of note along the way. They soon reached a brightly painted door; the sign hanging over it showing a silver swan with a jeweled staff under its wing. Boromir opened the door, and they were buffeted by warm air and the murmur of voices, seemingly loud after the silence of the street but by no means raucous.

They paused in the doorway for mere moments before proprietor hurried up to meet them. He was clearly an old soldier himself, with a craggy, scared face and a patch covering one eye.

He grinned broadly at Boromir, "My lord, welcome! It has been many months since you have graced us with your presence. How may I serve you this evening?"

Boromir smiled in reply, "Thank you, Torthon, it is good indeed to be back. My friend here is from the North and has a taste for the finest ale in Gondor, as do I."

Torthon beamed in response to the compliment, "You are too kind, my lord. I have a private room available if that is your preference."

While his companion conversed with the tavern keeper, Halbarad glanced around the dim common room. As Boromir had suggested, most of the patrons were clad in one of the uniforms of Gondor or otherwise had the bearing of soldiers. There were even a few tables of Rohirrim scattered about. Halbarad smiled to himself; you could always trust a soldier to find a hospitable place to drink in a new city.

But as he watched the buzz of conversation fell, and eyes turned toward their small party. Halbarad heard the words 'Captain' and 'Captain-General' repeated as the news of Boromir's presence circled the room like lightning. A chair scraped, and a uniformed soldier at nearby table stood facing Boromir and inclined his head respectfully, to be followed by his companions. Soon, every man in the room was on his feet; even, the Ranger noted with some surprise, the Rohirrim.

Boromir caught Halbarad's eye and shrugged eloquently, a rueful smile briefly crossing his lips. He stepped further into room and raised his hands as he addressed the crowd. "You honor me, gentlemen, and I thank you for it. But I know all too well that it was the blood, honor, and courage of you and those who fought alongside you that bought us this victory. I also know," he continued, his voice lightening, "that your drinking time is far too precious to be wasted on speechifying, so be at ease my friends, and enjoy the fruits of your labors."

Someone called, "Here, my lord!" and a brimming mug was pressed into his hand. He stared at it for a moment as if astonished that such a thing had occurred, while the crowd roared in laughter.

Boromir raised the mug with a grin and cried, "I salute you all! To victory!" He downed the ale in one long pull, while the men around him whooped and pounded the tables in appreciation. When he set the empty mug on a nearby table with a resounding thump, the cheers redoubled, and he bowed slightly to the assembled throng.

He smiled a little sheepishly at Halbarad as the tavern keeper led them through the crowd to cries of "Lord Boromir!" and "Huzzah for the Captain-General!" It was only when they passed out of the common room to a corridor of small parlors that it was finally quiet enough to converse in normal tones. Torthon opened the door to a cozy room with a table and few cushioned chairs, warmed by a small fireplace.

"Will this suit you, my lord?" Torthon asked politely.

"Yes, very well, thank you," Boromir told him as he and Halbarad took their seats by the fire. After a brief discussion of the brews available they placed their order, but before the proprietor could leave Boromir touched his arm and added, "A round for the house as well, Torthon."

"Aye, my lord!" Torthon grinned, obviously pleased at this turn of events; the old soldier in him showing through once again.

Boromir glanced at the ranger and shook his head, "My apologies, Halbarad. I am accustomed to moving about the city with little fuss or formality, and I forget how conspicuous I am with those two in my wake," he said, nodding at the two guards taking their places at the door.

Halbarad waved away his apology. "No matter! I am sure it is heartening to the men to see you here among them." He arched an eyebrow, "Though I note they know you still as their Captain-General rather than the Lord Steward."

The Gondorian snorted, "The proclamation announcing my father's resignation was read today, but I wager most here either don't know or don't care that I am now Lord Steward." He chuckled wryly, "That's as it should be as far as I'm concerned; the Captain-General has much more direct impact on their lives than the Steward. The merchants and nobles are another matter.

"Which reminds me, Halbarad," he went on, "I was stopped by one of my father's supporters on the Steward's Council when making my way here." Boromir grimaced, "He was asking some not-so-subtle questions about Aragorn and his claim to the throne. I was able to put him off for now, but I would appreciate it if you could tell Aragorn that it might be best not to draw too much attention to himself—at least not before we leave for Mordor."

Halbarad chuckled, "More scruffy ranger and less Heir of Isildur? I'm certain he'll be happy to oblige."

At that moment the tavern keep bustled in, followed by one of the serving maids. They deposited a pitcher of ale, two mugs and a platter heaped with bread, cheese and meat on the table between the two men.

"There you are, Captain, our best bitter—the reserve stock," Torthon added with a smile. "Is there aught else I can get for at the moment, my lord?"

"No, that will be all for now. Thank you," Boromir replied.

The two left, closing the door softly behind them as Halbarad poured ale for himself and Boromir. The ranger took a sip from his mug and raised an eyebrow appreciatively. "This is quite good!" he exclaimed.

"A little less surprise would be more flattering," Boromir chuckled, taking a drink of his own. "How does it compare to the brews of the 'Prancing Pony' that I've heard so much about?"

"Very well," Halbarad responded with a smile. "Of course, when I was last there before we started south their ale was particularly excellent, but otherwise, it is comparable." He caught Boromir's eyes over his mug, "I think you will have to come to Bree to judge for yourself, someday."

"As unlikely as it seems now that I may ever get the chance, I would like to very much. As you may know, my previous excursion to the North did not permit sight-seeing, so I would welcome a chance to return in times of peace. If we are ever blessed with any such times again," he added softly. "I think…I would like to see The Shire after hearing so much about it from Merry and Pippin."

"I'm certain your friends would be delighted to show it to you. It's a lovely place," Halbarad told him with a fond smile.

"You've been there?"

"Oh, yes, many times," the ranger said with a nod. "We Rangers have guarded its borders for years at Gandalf's behest." He gave an amused snort, "At least now we finally know _why_ he felt it should be watched."

A puzzled frown briefly crossed Boromir's face, quickly replaced by a nod of comprehension, "Ah, Frodo and his uncle."

"Indeed," Halbarad responded wryly.

Boromir refilled their mugs, asking, "So where do you call home, my friend?"

Halbarad took another drink before replying, "The Northern Dúnedain have small settlements scattered across Eriador, though most of our people live in The Angle south of Rivendell. You likely would have passed through there on your journey north. My home is in one of those settlements, though the name of the town would mean nothing to you. My family is there, doubtless worrying and waiting for news from our Company."

A look that seemed closely akin to pain crossed Boromir's face briefly, then was gone, "A wife, and children?"

Halbarad smiled in happy recollection, "Aye, my wife, Celebeth, two daughters and a son. My son Halfalas is the youngest, just sixteen summers, and bitterly disappointed to be left behind when we rode south."

Boromir snorted sympathetically, "Well I remember _that_; the ache to prove oneself."

"I as well," Halbarad nodded. "But I could not in good conscience do that to his mother; it was bad enough that Tondir—my eldest daughter's husband—did make the journey. He is well so far, surviving the battle with only minor injuries."

They fell silent, their minds turning inescapably to the thought that none might survive what was to come. The ranger pulled out a pipe from his tunic pocket and arched an eyebrow at Boromir, "Do you mind?"

The Gondorian waved assent, "Please! Despite never developing a taste for it myself, I became all too accustomed to the smell of pipeweed when I was traveling with the Fellowship. Legolas and I were the only ones in the company who did not indulge." A wry smile twisted his lips, "It is probably the only thing the elf and I have in common."

Halbarad grinned, "'Tis true that elves are not fond of pipeweed."

"Come to think of it," Boromir said with a puzzled frown, "it is strange that Aragorn has acquired the habit, raised as he was by elves."

Halbarad chuckled, "I'm afraid the corrupting influence of his kinsmen must be blamed in his case." His attention was diverted briefly from his companion while he concentrated on filling his pipe and lighting it, and when he glanced up again he found Boromir gazing into the fire, seemingly lost in thought.

The ranger narrowed his eyes; as the new Lord Steward in the midst of a life-or-death struggle with the Dark Lord, there was certainly much to occupy his mind. But still, there was..._something_; something in his visage, perhaps—an air of melancholy that suggested heartache of a different sort.

"So, my friend," Halbarad murmured softly, "what is her name?"

Boromir sighed, still staring into the fire, "Mor…" he began, then he straightened and turned, his eyes wide in surprise, "—loth. How did… Did someone…?" he sputtered.

"Hmph, there's a certain look a man gets when his heart is burdened in that way, which is unlike any other," Halbarad answered with a gentle smile. "Eru knows I saw it often enough on Aragorn's face in the years he was pining for his lady." After a moment, he added, "Morloth, did you say? I seem to recall Aragorn mentioning that name when we met on the battlefield."

"Aye," Boromir replied, flushing and averting his eyes, "she is the healer that Aragorn met after I was wounded at Parth Galen. She cared for me while he and the others followed the orcs that captured Merry and Pippin. She…she saved my life, but that is _not_ why I love her!" he added defensively.

Halbarad pursed his lips on a smile, "I wouldn't dream of suggesting such a thing." Sensing that Boromir truly wished—nay, _needed_—to unburden his heart, he waited quietly for his companion to continue.

Presently, the Gondorian sighed, "You should see her, Halbarad…hair like a river of night and eyes of gray crystal." He shook his head, "Beautiful, quick-witted and fearless; everything I wanted before I knew I wanted it."

"Does she know how you feel?" Halbarad asked softly.

He nodded tersely. "Aye. My father learned of it as well, and he was furious. He's been after me to choose a bride for twenty years, but when I finally found someone I could love…" His face closed, the memory too bitter. "He refused to even consider that we might marry."

Halbarad blinked in confusion, "But surely that is no impediment now that he is no longer the Steward!"

"No," Boromir replied, drawing a ragged breath, his face etched in pain. "I was certain she loved me as well, but today when I told her of my hopes we might wed, she…she refused me." He chuckled, but there was no merriment in it, "Ran out of the room crying, in fact." He took a long drink from his tankard, unwilling to meet Halbarad's eyes.

"Crying, eh?" Halbarad responded neutrally. "Well, it could be worse."

Boromir whipped around, glaring at the ranger, "Could be _worse_?" he repeated in an outraged tone. "What could be worse than the lady I love fleeing from me in tears?"

Halbarad's mouth twisted, "The first time I asked my Celebeth to marry me, she _laughed_."

Boromir stared at him in astonishment for a moment, then shuddered, "Aye, that would be worse."

"The second time she threw washing water on me," he laughed, "in the dead of winter! Now keep in mind she had good reason to doubt my sincerity—Eru knows I was an exceptionally blockheaded lad—but the _third_ time I asked, she said yes." He met Boromir's eyes, his face sympathetic, "If this Morloth is the one you truly want, don't give up."

"I don't plan to," Boromir sighed. "But she's been damned clever about avoiding me, and avoiding those like my brother that she suspects would plead my case. I know she can't evade me forever, but I'm departing for Mordor in little more than a day, and I cannot—_will_ not—leave with matters as they are between us."

"Hmm," Halbarad pulled thoughtfully on his pipe. "A healer, you say? She may be able to avoid your known partisans, but she does not know _my_ face, so perhaps I can be of assistance.

-ooo-

Duilin woke Boromir before dawn the next morning, much to the new Steward's chagrin. He and Halbarad had spoken well into the night, and emptied a third pitcher of ale between the two of them.

"My lord, I am sorry to disturb you," Duilin told Boromir, offering him a mug of tea, blessedly strong and hot. "Prince Imrahil wishes to speak to you, and he says the matter is urgent.

"Right," Boromir answered, bowing to the inevitable and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He took a long gulp of the tea, and waited for his eyes to focus properly. Once his head felt a little clearer, he let Duilin help him into a dressing gown and slippers.

He let himself into the outer chamber and addressed the waiting Prince, "What can I do for you, Uncle?"

"Ah, Boromir, sorry to wake you so early. I would not have done so without need."

Boromir waved off his apology with a smile, "I know that."

Imrahil sighed, "I am afraid that something is afoot with the Steward's Council. Some members are insisting that the Council should meet now that the siege is over. You should expect a formal request sometime this morning." He shook his head, "While I'm not certain exactly what they hope to achieve, I thought it best that you be prepared."

His nephew swore, "I should have guessed this would happen, Lord Raendil stopped me last night with the same suggestion. Who is it, Father's partisans? I'm certain they are not pleased about his resignation."

His uncle nodded, "Yes, in the main, though there are others. Now as you know you are not required to consult them in wartime, so they cannot force this upon you. However, we are both leaving in a day, so you must decide whether it would be best to deal with this problem now, yourself, or leave it for Faramir to face."

Boromir's mind raced; reviewing the composition of the Council and which members were likely to support him—and by extension, Faramir. His strongest support was among Lords who, like Prince Imrahil, had provided troops to aid in the defense of the city, most of whom would accompany them to Mordor. In contrast, there were few military men among Lord Denethor's most loyal adherents, and consequently they would remain in the city to potentially cause headaches for his brother.

"Damn it, I won't leave this mess for Faramir to clean up! I have little doubt that Father is stirring things up behind the scenes, but there must be no question that the rule of Gondor has passed to me, and that Faramir as my heir will command in my absence." He blew out a long breath, "We will call a meeting of the Council for today. I mean to settle this, _now_."

The look of relief on his uncle's face told Boromir clearly that Imrahil felt his decision was the correct one. He nodded, "I think that is wise. If I may also suggest…as you know, it is traditional for the Captain-General to have a seat on, and a vote in the Steward's Council. However, at the moment you hold that position as well as being Lord Steward since no other Captain-General has been named. While not a problem in itself, it means that if there in any issue that comes to a vote…"

Boromir pinched the bridge of his nose in annoyance, trying to keep at bay the headache that had threatened since he had arisen. "…I can only cast one vote where I could potentially have two! What a fool I am, I had completely forgotten that would be the case!"

"Well, you did have a few other pressing matters on your mind," Imrahil chuckled.

His nephew scrubbed a hand across his face. "Uncle, please call a Council meeting for three hours past noon. That should give me enough time."

Imrahil's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline, "Of course, Boromir. But time for _what_?"

Boromir smiled tightly, "I have a few…arrangements to make."

* * *

_**AN:** Just wanted to mention that I had originally planned to show the Council meeting before Boromir's conversation with Morloth, but I kept envisioning villagers with pitchforks if I put it off any more. But I have a little challenge in mind for my loyal readers, called "Guess Why Morloth Said 'No'!" Let's see how many of you can guess, either in a review or a PM, why Morloth wouldn't marry Boromir. I will say that there is sufficient information in the story to figure it out, but that's the only hint I'm giving. Thanks so much for reading!_


	32. Chapter 32

_Well, yeah. I'm pretty much a horrible person for leaving you all hanging for so long. I got sidetracked by other projects, vacation and other RL stuff. Sorry about that, hopefully future updates won't be so slow. But finally, FINALLY, here is the long-awaited Boromir and Morloth 'why the hell won't you marry me?' chapter! I'm happy to report that Sofasoap and Aleixa guessed correctly the reason why Morloth felt she couldn't marry Boromir, so congratulations and virtual cookies to you both. And thanks to everyone who reviewed, I appreciate all my reviews so very much, and some of the suggested reasons were *very* imaginative!_

_This chapter is a tad shorter than usual, but the next big event is the Council meeting which will be a fairly lengthy chapter in itself. (And you know there'll be some more M & B action before B heads off to Mordor as well.)_

_Enjoy!_

* * *

Chapter 32

Halbarad stood back and watched the object of his mission for a few moments before approaching her. She had not been hard to find; there had been no other women of such beauty and clear Númenórean lineage in the Houses of Healing. The sight of Boromir's lady brought with it an unexpected pang of longing; in height and coloring she very much resembled a woman of the Northern Dúnedain not unlike his wife and daughters.

He waited until she finished with her current patient before catching her attention. "My lady," Halbard said earnestly, "I am told that you could help me. One of my kinsman is injured and is in need of treatment."

She turned and gave him a bright smile, "Oh, you are one of Lord Aragorn's company, are you not? What seems to be the problem?"

"Young Amras has a wound that needs attention," Halbarad explained, furrowing his brow worriedly. "It appeared minor—or at least he _thought_ it was," the ranger added in his best 'oh, the folly of youth' tone. "And now it has become infected."

"Of course, I'd be happy to take a look at it," Morloth replied earnestly. "Where is he?"

"We were given a room just across the hall here," he said easily, grasping her elbow lightly and guiding her into the corridor.

"I am surprised that you did not have Aragorn tend him, I know he is a healer of great skill," the dark-haired woman commented.

Fortunately, she seemed more curious than suspicious. "Aragorn has been busy with military matters," he replied smoothly, opening the door. He kept his eyes firmly fixed on her and she responded in kind, so consequently she did not occupants of the room until the door was closed behind her.

Morloth turned to find the patient she expected and instead saw a very healthy-looking Boromir gazing at her, flanked by Beregond and another guardsman. The gray-cloaked man who had asked for her assistance with what was now clearly an imaginary patient smiled and bowed contritely, "Apologies for the deception, my lady. I am Halbarad of the Dúnedain."

"What…why?" she sputtered as Boromir strode up to her, tension etched across his face.

"Please don't be angry with Halbarad, Morloth," he pleaded. "He was only trying to help." He nodded his thanks to the Ranger, who quietly left the room, closing the door behind him.

"Boromir, how _could_ you?" Morloth demanded furiously. "How could you stoop to tricking me like this?"

"I'm sorry, my love," Boromir lifted a hand to touch her before dropping it with a sigh. "I…I _had_ to speak to you, and you've been avoiding me."

"I…I should just walk right out that door," she replied, trying to maintain her outrage in face of the beseeching look on Boromir's face.

"I know that, Morloth, and on my honor I will not try to stop you if you do. But please, _please_ give me a chance—hear me out. If afterward you wish to leave and never speak to me, I will not approach you again."

Morloth sighed, uncertain, yearning for Boromir but terrified what might happen if she stayed. Taking her silence as consent, he motioned for the guardsmen to leave.

Still a mass of conflicting emotions, she rounded on Beregond as he passed, "Beregond, I can't believe you would condone this! You're supposed to be my friend!"

He paused to meet her eyes, clasping her arm affectionately. "I _am_ your friend, Morloth. And as your friend I have never known you to run from hard choices. Boromir is my lord and commands my loyalty, but more importantly he is a good man who loves you. He deserves the truth from you."

Morloth's eyes fell; she knew he was right and she was ashamed of her cowardice—for that was surely what it was. She was _afraid_—afraid to see the pain on Boromir's face and know she was responsible. Afraid that even though it was impossible for them to be together she could not lie and tell him she didn't care.

She nodded briefly in acknowledgement and Beregond embraced her for a moment before exiting quietly, taking the other guardsman with him.

Finally left alone, the silence stretched between the lovers until Boromir cleared his throat. "Thank you for staying, my lady. I think you know what it is I want...what I need. An explanation of why you say we cannot be wed."

Still reluctant to meet his gaze, she turned away and sighed deeply. "You know the reasons as well as I do, Boromir. Now, even more so than when you were your father's heir. You are the Lord Steward and will be expected to marry according to your station—a…princess or some other woman of high noble birth. Most certainly _not_ the daughter of a guardsman and the widow of a Ranger."

Boromir sighed and ran a hand through his hair distractedly, "Morloth, you know I did not look to become Steward so soon; by preference my father would have been healthy and sane and held the Steward's rod for many years to come. But it seems to me that one of the few boons to come of my taking on the Steward's mantle so early is that now I may marry whomever I wish and no one can gainsay me."

"But…but people will expect you to marry someone near your own station…" Morloth began, her brow furrowed in concern.

"Some will be surprised, and yes, some even offended," Boromir replied with a snort, "but that will always be true. Whichever noble lady I chose, others will find reason to object if I did not pick the one they favor.

"And as for princesses," he rolled his eyes, "who do suggest I marry? Éowyn of Rohan? Given the look on my brother's face when he speaks of her, I doubt he would be pleased to learn I was courting her, even if she were inclined to hear my suit, which is not at all certain."

Morloth's eyebrows flew toward her hairline. "Really? Faramir and the Lady Éowyn?"

Boromir shrugged, "I suspect so, though I am not certain. Besides," he continued, waving his hand dismissively, "she is far too young for me. As is the only other princess of my acquaintance, my cousin Lothíriel, Prince Imrahil's daughter. She is even younger than Éowyn," he said, glaring at Morloth, "and I flat out refuse to marry anyone I dandled on my knee as a babe."

Despite herself, Morloth couldn't help but giggle at his exasperated tone.

"So, unless you are urging me to seek out a princess of the Easterlings or the Haradrim, an unlikely prospect given that our realms at still at war…"

"Of course not!" Morloth huffed. "But for the Ruling Steward to wed a commoner…"

"My lady," Boromir said soothingly, "I think you are forgetting that it is likely my tenure as Ruling Steward will be brief. Even if we all survive this war, which is by no means assured, I will do my utmost to put Aragorn on the throne of Gondor. And since he plans to wed the daughter of the elf lord, Elrond—a princess in all but name and descended from the highest of high elves—I think there will be far less concern about the lady that Boromir of Gondor decides to marry."

"Aragorn is to marry an _elf_?" Morloth squeaked, her eyes huge.

"Aye, her father has agreed to it, I understand, if Aragorn becomes King. I believe that is in part the reason why Arwen's brothers accompanied the other Rangers in their search for Aragorn. If you are worried that the noble ladies of the court will be unkind to you because of your birth, keep in mind that the highest ranking lady of the court sets the tone for behavior. If Arwen becomes queen I am certain she will not tolerate the kind of petty back-biting that you might otherwise rightly fear.

"Morloth…" His voice fell and he searched her face; after a moment she looked away, unable to bear the yearning on his face. "If you are wondering why I spoke now, when all is still so uncertain, please be assured it was not simply a whim."

"I…I never said I believed that, Boromir," she said softly.

He smiled, looking off in to the distance, "All those hours I waited, and paced, and thought during the siege, my mind turned to you so often. I vowed to myself then that I would make my intentions known at the first opportunity. With all that was in doubt, I needed for you to know without reservation that my heart is yours and yours alone, and I mean for all to know that."

"Oh, Boromir…" Morloth sighed, her voice sad.

"Especially now, I could not ride off to war tomorrow without you knowing how I feel, my love; I felt I must declare myself," he added fiercely.

Morloth paled and clasped his arm tightly, "Riding off to war? What in Eru's name are you talking about, Boromir? I…I heard that there will be an army marching to the Black Gate, but surely you are not going with them? You…you are still injured; you are needed here!"

There was an edge of panic of in her voice that caused Boromir's heart to lighten unexpectedly. Surely if she was worried by the prospect of him going into battle it suggested she was not indifferent to his fate!

"I'm not completely healed, it is true, but I well enough, and certainly in better shape to fight than Faramir," he replied.

"Why must either of you go?" she asked plaintively, distress still clearly written on her face.

"Someone must command Gondor's forces, Morloth," he said soothingly. "And although Uncle could if neither Faramir nor I were able, I…I _want_ to go, my love. Everyone tells me it is not so, but I still feel that I did much less than I could have during the siege. I want…I _need_ to do this." He shook his head, "My only regret is that I must leave you behind." He smiled and took her hand, "But it would ease my mind considerably if I knew you were here waiting for me. Please, Morloth," he pleaded, tipping her chin up to meet his eyes, "can you truthfully tell me that you don't care for me after all we've been through."

She choked back a sob, "Of course I care for you, Boromir, how could I not?"

He took her hands in his, "I know the odds are slim that either of us will survive the coming days and weeks, but if we do live to see happier times, I beg you, please, say you will marry me. You have all my heart, and I want nothing more than to have you as my wife and the mother of my children."

Morloth pulled away, tears brimming in her eyes. "Boromir, I _can't_, please don't ask me!" she cried in an anguished voice.

"My love, you must tell me why," the Steward said urgently, determined that this time she would answer. "I can marry whomever I wish and I want you, so that cannot be the reason. What is it that is troubling you?"

She turned away, arms wrapped around herself, shoulders shaking. He came up behind her and laid his hands gently on her shoulders. "Please, Morloth; unless you're secretly married to someone else, I doubt very much that anything you say could shock or disgust me.

"Very well, Boromir," she responded after a moment of silence, her voice breaking. "I had hoped I would never have to tell you this, but…I'm afraid I won't be able to give you children." Her face was bleak and she carefully avoided Boromir's gaze, her eyes brimming with tears.

Boromir strode over and pulled her against his chest. "Sh, sh, my love. Morloth, my lady, why would you think that prevent us from marrying?"

"You…you are the Lord Steward, Boromir, and I know you must have an heir." Before Boromir could speak she blurted, "I…I know I should have said so before, but it seemed so unlikely that we could ever marry…"

"Morloth, stop," he said gently. "Make no mistake, nothing would make me happier than to have children with you, and yes, I would like to have a son to be Steward after me." He shrugged, "But if it happens, it happens. And if not, then Faramir can get busy and provide and heir for the House of Hurin," he told her with a smirk.

"But Boromir, I can't cheat you like that! You should marry some young noble lady as everyone expects, one who you know could give you children."

Boromir harrumphed dismissively, "If I wanted to marry some young thing with good bloodlines and wide hips to give me children, I could have done so anytime in the last twenty years! My father had more suggestions than you can count. But that is _not_ what I wanted. I wanted…_needed_ someone who could do more—_be_ more—than a body to warm my bed and give me children. And although I never knew it was you that I was waiting for I can see now it must be so."

Morloth was speechless; she had dreaded this conversation for so long, certain that Boromir would try to find a way to withdraw his proposal once he had learned the truth. She honestly did not know what to say or what to feel.

Into the silence Boromir murmured, "Do you know for certain that you cannot have more children, or do you simply fear it?"

The question gave her mind something to focus on other than her churning emotions. "Bregor and I wanted to have more children," she responded in a quavering voice. "I had a miscarriage a few years after Cirlan was born, and I never conceived again." She sniffed, and Boromir held her tightly, "In the last few years, the Dark Lord's armies increased their presence in Ithilien and Bregor was seldom home, so I suppose it could have just been ill luck."

"We will hope, then, that it was so and that our luck would be better," Boromir pulled away to meet her eyes. "But believe me when I say it does not lessen my desire to marry you in the slightest." He grasped her chin meeting her eyes, his voice rough with emotion, "So I ask you once again, Morloth; do you love me and will you be my wife?"

"Boromir, I…" Morloth began and fell silent. Ever since his proposal she had been trying to harden her heart against her love for him, certain that the obstacles that separated them were too great. But now she was standing in the rubble of her fears; when faced, they had just…crumbled.

She shook herself and gazed up at Boromir—_her_ Boromir, who was waiting expectantly for an answer. She felt a joyful smile spread over her face and threw herself into his arms. "Yes!" she cried, "I will marry you, I love you so much!" He let out a sob of relief and a moment later his lips found hers for an ardent kiss and she knew she had chosen rightly.

-ooo-

Some time later, Boromir and Morloth emerged from the room hand in hand. A glance at their glowing faces told Beregond all he needed to know. Beaming, he pulled Morloth into his arms and murmured, "Am I right that congratulations are in order?"

Unable to trust her voice, Morloth nodded, and the guardsman clasped her more tightly, "I am so happy for you, my dear friend."

She finally found her voice, "We are not announcing it yet, but I want you and Aerin to know." She sighed, "I'll need to tell my sister and her family as well. And Cirlan, of course. I'm…I'm not certain how he'll feel about this or whether it makes sense to tell him and my sister before Boromir…returns," she added uncertainly. "He has been so restless and bored since the siege ended; I know I need to find some occupation for him…"

"Morloth, there's no need to worry about that now," he assured her, giving her a comforting squeeze. "It'll work out, you'll see. He's a good lad and wants you to be happy."

"My lady…" Boromir began hesitantly, obviously reluctant to interrupt them. "I'm afraid I must meet Uncle now, but will you join me later?" he asked hopefully.

Beregond released Morloth and Boromir promptly claimed her hand. "Of course, Boromir," she smiled. Eyes full of promise, the Steward placed a lingering kiss on her knuckles before departing with his guardsmen trailing behind.

The nephew that Prince Imrahil met in the Steward's study a few minutes later was in a far happier mood than the last time they had spoken. He strode into the room, a broad smile on his face, and could almost be described as…ebullient. Imrahil gazed at him narrowly, uncertain how and why this dramatic change in attitude had come to pass.

But before he could speak Boromir clapped him on the shoulder and asked, "So, have the Council members been notified?"

The Prince nodded, "Aye, they will be assembling at three hours past noon, as you requested. And some rather smug about it, I might add."

Boromir grinned, "We'll let them enjoy it while they can. If I have anything to say about it, they will find the results of the meeting to be far less pleasing."


	33. Chapter 33

Surprise! I'm a) not dead, and b) still working on this story. I hope you're all still interested in reading it. This chapter fought me tooth and nail, but is finally done, thank heavens. In this chapter Boromir has some political unpleasantness to deal with before he gets back to Morloth. But get back he will, in the next chapter!

Thank you all for reading and for your patience!

* * *

Chapter 33

When the members of the Steward's Council began filing into the council chamber a few minutes before the appointed hour, three men were waiting for them: Boromir, the new Lord Steward, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth and Boromir's brother and heir, Faramir. Although the first two had been regular attendants of such meetings in the past—at least Lord Boromir had been before leaving on his journey—the inclusion of Faramir was more surprising. Boromir noted that when Lord Losben, one of Denethor's most loyal partisans, appeared he gazed at his younger brother with narrowed eyes.

A few minutes after the hour, when Boromir judged that all who were expected to attend had arrived, he called the gathering to order. When all were seated he began, "Thank you all for coming as we have urgent and important matters to discuss. But first I must acknowledge all those who were injured or perished in the recent battle. The valor of all those who fought to preserve Gondor, whether one of our own folk or our valiant allies from Rohan, will not be forgotten, nor will their sacrifice.

"I wish I could mention by name all who were lost, but since I cannot I will acknowledge in particular the members of this council and their family members who are no longer with us." With that, he began reading a list of names that included Lord Hirluin of Pinnath Gelin, Derufin and Duilin, the sons of Lord Duinhir of Blackroot Vale, and Lord Forlong of Lossarnach. "Lord Duinhir lies injured in the Houses of Healing but is expected to recover," Boromir added. He glanced toward a thin, weary-looking young man sitting at the table. "Lord Forlas, Forlong's son and heir, joins us today. Welcome, Lord Forlas, and know that we share your grief. Your father will be missed." The others at the table murmured agreement, and the new Lord of Lossarnach nodded gravely in acknowledgement.

After a moment Boromir spoke again. "I have called this meeting as a courtesy so that those of you in positions of trust and responsibility may know the truth of Gondor's current position, and what lies ahead of us. We have won a great victory against the forces of Mordor, thanks to the courage and determination of our people and that of our allies. But make no mistake; the danger is far from over. We are still at war," he said firmly, catching the eyes of each man present in turn.

The Lord Steward rose and began pacing as he spoke, "Despite our victory, the Black Land still holds enemies aplenty, and we cannot wait until they attack again and hope to survive another siege. Prince Imrahril and I have discussed the situation with our allies and other wise counselors, and have determined that our best chance to survive this war is to march on the Black Gates and confront the Enemy in his own land. Some of you have no doubt noted that our men and those of Rohan are mustering; we leave at first light tomorrow."

The reaction to this announcement was less than might be expected since many in the room had troops involved in the muster. But Lord Losben snorted derisively, "What 'wise counselors' suggested this foolishness? Was Mithrandir among them?"

Boromir met his eyes steadily, "Indeed he was! It would be height of imprudence to ignore the advice of one of the Wise of Middle Earth. And that he is a true friend of Gondor has been amply demonstrated by his actions during the siege."

Lord Roenall asked anxiously, "But what of the city? How will you ensure its safety if all our soldiers march to Mordor? Are…are _you_ planning to lead our men? Who will command while you are gone?"

"Yes, Prince Imrahil and I will command Gondor's troops," Boromir explained with a nod. "As you no doubt recall, it was my honor to serve as Gondor's Captain-General for many years since traditionally that position is held by the Steward's heir. I have therefore requested that my heir, Lord Faramir take up the mantle of Captain-General, effective immediately. He has agreed." All eyes turned to Faramir, who had been sitting silently watching the proceedings. "He will command the forces that remain to guard the city and serve as acting Lord Steward in my stead."

"No offense meant to Lord Faramir," Lord Losben said in an unctuous tone that somehow suggested just the opposite. "But perhaps one with more experience in ruling this realm might be a better choice."

"Lord Faramir inexperienced?" the young Lord Forlas asked in an outraged voice. "He has commanded in Ithilien—near the Enemy's very doors—for over a decade. That is hardly 'inexperienced'. We in Lossarnach know all too well the value of his service."

Lord Losben all but rolled his eyes at the young lord's passionate defense of Faramir. "I meant only that there is another whose experience and fitness is beyond doubt, who could command the city it its hour of need. Lord Denethor…"

"Lord Denethor has himself declared that he is unfit to rule," Boromir interrupted impatiently. "My decision stands. My father has served this city honorably for many years, and will not be called upon to return to duty."

"His resignation was highly questionable!" Lord Losben huffed. "I have spoken to him recently and he now feels…"

"I witnessed his statement myself," Prince Imrahil reminded them mildly. "I can assure you there was no coercion involved, if that is what you are suggesting." Although his face was calm, Imrahil's eyes narrowed and he held the angry lord's gaze challengingly, every inch a prince.

"I would never suggest such a thing," Losben continued, seemingly determined to have his say despite the growing tension in the room. "But to deprive ourselves of Lord Denethor's experience…"

"Enough!" Boromir exclaimed gruffly. "This is neither the time nor the place to discuss what role, if any, my father—the _former_ Lord Steward—may have in the governance of Gondor." He gave Lord Losben a long, hard look. "But since apparently you are uncomfortable with my leadership, which I judge to be unhelpful in our current situation, you are therefore dismissed from this council."

Lord Losben stared at him incredulously, "What?! No! You cannot…"

Boromir snorted, "I believe that you will find that I can. You were appointed by the previous Lord Steward and now serve at _my_ pleasure." He smiled tightly, leaving unsaid his obvious _dis_pleasure at the man's obstructionism.

Glancing wildly around the room looking for support, Lord Losben was met only with blank stares, and in some cases, barely concealed mirth at his situation. Faramir had been sitting quietly, watching closely as events unfolded, and he took careful note of the reactions of other councilors. He knew there were others of like to the dismissed Lord—none of whom spoke on his behalf, notably; after all, what could they do? But a few looked positively gleeful at Boromir's actions.

When it was clear he had no other choice, Lord Losben swept out of the room with his head held high, trying to maintain some dignity despite his sudden change in fortune. "You'll regret this," he growled as he left.

"I doubt that very much," Lord Dervordin, the elderly and opinionated lord of Ringló Vale muttered, echoing the thoughts of many assembled there. Dervordin had often clashed with Denethor and his supporters in the past, but much to the old Lord Steward's irritation he could not be similarly dismissed—his position assured him a seat on the council. "To get on with the business at hand, although I can't see how knocking on the Dark Lord's front gate could end well, I don't favor the idea of waiting until his armies return, either. What I'd like to know is this: how many troops will be left here to guard the city and who will command the army going to Mordor. I know that the horselords have their young king and from what I've heard he knows his way around a battlefield. But still someone will need to be in overall command of the entire force. To my mind, it should be a Gondorian since we have the most to lose."

"Lord Dervordin," Boromir replied evenly, "remember that it is all of Middle Earth that stands imperiled, not just Gondor. As some of you know, mere days before coming to our aid Rohan was attacked by troops from Isengard, Saruman having thrown his lot in with the Dark Lord. The Rohirrim were able to defeat Saruman's army, but it was a near thing. There have also been reports of armies on the move in the North— Easterlings and orcs from the Gray and Misty Mountains. None of the good peoples of Middle Earth are safe from Sauron's evil.

"But to answer your question, my lord, some three thousand mixed Gondorian and Rohirrim troops will be left in the city, under the command of Lord Faramir. As for those marching to the Black Gate, King Éomer has agreed that _I_ will be in overall command."

Faramir was unsurprised to hear murmurs of satisfaction at this announcement. Whether those assembled approved the overall strategy outlined or not there was widespread sentiment that Gondor should be treated as the first among equals. Privately, however, he wondered if this was a bluff on his brother's part or whether he had actually secured such an agreement.

Another voice was heard, "What about that Ranger Captain; 'Aragorn' I believe he calls himself." It was Lord Faimen, also an appointee of Denethor's who Faramir knew to be of like mind to the disgraced Lord Losben. "Fancies himself the 'Heir of Isildur', does he not? No doubt he considers himself worthy of the crown as well! Will you trust an unkempt wanderer; a stranger who knows nothing of Gondor or its people to claim the throne of this realm?" He snorted derisively, "Gondor has no need of a king, and surely not one such as him. You should send the fellow on his way."

It seemed to Faramir that Boromir's jaw tightened with some emotion he could not identify. But the moment passed, and he met Lord Faimen's eyes resolutely. "Aragorn, son of Arathorn _is_ the heir of Isildur, of that there is no doubt. He is descended in direct line from Arvedui, the last king in the North. The sword he bears is Narsil, the sword of Elendil, now reforged."

Many in the room gasped at this announcement, and a murmur of conversation rose as the councilors reacted to this news. At first Faramir was surprised that Boromir had revealed what he knew of Aragorn's heritage, but upon reflection he smiled at his brother's cleverness. Acknowledging the legitimacy Aragorn's birthright now, when no formal claim to the throne had been made, might pave the way to easier acceptance later.

"But let me be clear; at this time he is not a contender for the throne of Gondor. He has not requested that we consider him such and I have not done so." Boromir continued, catching the eyes of each man in turn, "I know Aragorn well, he is a good man and a fearsome warrior. We would be foolish indeed to spurn the assistance of the man who wields Narsil reforged. You may be certain that Sauron will remember that sword, and not fondly."

"His men may be few in number," Imrahil added, "but I have seen them in battle—they are hard fighters, and fierce ones. Boromir is right, we need every skilled sword."

"Besides," Boromir said, a wry smile twisting his lips, "Aragorn is no stranger to this land. He lived in Gondor for many years in the service of my grandfather, Lord Ecthelion. I'm sure you all have heard tales of his deeds during that time—he used the name _Thorongil_."

Stunned silence fell over the room for a moment, but then erupted with cries of shock and disbelief.

"Thorongil, the commander of the victory at Umbar?" one council member asked incredulously.

"The same."

Another voice cut through the cacophony, "Impossible!" Lord Faimen scoffed. "That was nearly forty years ago; that Thorongil would be an old man by now! It is clearly a lie to gain your trust, I'm shocked you would be taken in by it."

Boromir's eyes sharpened as he gazed at the angry lord. "He is, in point of fact, a year younger than my father. And quite hale despite his age due to his bloodline, as any who have seen him in combat will attest. As for it being a lie…" he snorted dismissively, "Aragorn did not himself reveal his past as Thorongil, he was recognized by Lord Denethor. It seems that my father remembers him quite well from Aragorn's service to his father."

"But what…why did he come here to serve under an assumed name?" Lord Roenall asked, clearly bewildered by the day's revelations.

The Lord Steward arched his brow, "I have not asked him that, and I judge it is not my place to do so at this time. If he should ever petition to be considered for the throne of Gondor, that, and many other questions can be asked."

Boromir's gaze swept the room once again, "As I'm sure you all understand, there are many matters that require my attention before we depart tomorrow. So unless is anything urgent that cannot wait…" A few of those present shifted uncomfortably, perhaps wishing to speak but not willing to risk it under the Lord Steward's baleful glare. When no one spoke up he added, "Then I consider our business here concluded. Thank you for your time, gentlemen, and your continuing service to Gondor."

Boromir glanced up to meet his brother's eyes; a small gesture from the elder was all the younger needed to understand that he should stay. When Prince Imrahil passed him, he clapped his older nephew on the shoulder. Boromir smiled briefly and murmured, "We'll be with you shortly, Uncle."

Once the room was empty except for the two brothers, Boromir sighed deeply and scrubbed a hand over his face. "That went as well as could be expected, I think."

Faramir chuckled, "I see you learned well Father's lessons on how to properly terrify a room full of powerful men with competing interests."

His brother snorted, "I admit it was heavy-handed, but I could not afford to show weakness in front of those doubtful of my leadership. It is as much for your benefit as my own. Speaking of which, could you please ask Beregond to step in, and close the door behind us when you do? There is something we must discuss."

Faramir raised an eyebrow curiously, but did as his brother bade. Once the guardsman had joined them and the door was firmly closed behind them, Boromir turned again to his brother. "Since you will be responsible for the defense of the city while we are gone, you should know that I intend to take half of the Citadel guards with me to Mordor."

Both men stared at him in surprise, so he lifted his hands to delay questions until he had a chance to explain more fully. "I know it is unusual, the Guards of the Citadel seldom march to war, but it also has been many centuries since a ruling steward has commanded troops in the field. It will be said that they are accompany us as my personal guards."

"Given how much persuasion was required for us to convince you to accept even two guards," Faramir noted wryly, "I assume there is some other motivation for this decision besides your own safety."

Boromir nodded briskly, "Aye. That is where you come in, Beregond. Am I correct that Lieutenant Ruinor died during the siege and currently there is no second in command of the Guards?"

"Yes, my lord," Beregond replied. "I believe Captain Meldir plans to make a recommendation for this replacement, but has not had time to do so yet."

The Steward waved away his explanation, "Completely understandable. However, I would like _you_ take on that position."

"Me, my lord?" Beregond sputtered. "But there are several others with more seniority…"

"I have no doubt that you are more than capable and worthy of this promotion," Boromir assured him. "However, it can be considered a temporary promotion for now if you wish. Captain Meldir has already been informed of my intentions; that he shall command the guardsmen that will accompany me, and you will be in command of those staying in the city. He awaits only my decision on which guardsmen should go and which should be left behind."

He gathered some writing materials from a side table and placed them in front of the startled guardsman. "Sit. I need a list of any of your fellow guardsmen whose loyalty might be to my father rather than to me. Any who might be…persuaded by those sympathetic to my father to against the interests of Gondor—against Faramir—while I am gone."

Beregond sat and picked up the pen, but met Boromir's eyes, abject misery in his face. "My lord…" he said imploringly.

"I know that it is much to ask of you, for you cannot know for certain what lies in men's heart and minds," the Lord Steward told him sympathetically. "But this is not a punishment; all who march to the Black Gate under Gondor's banner will have a chance to acquit themselves honorably in her service. No one but the three of us will know that a number have been chosen because there is some small doubt about their loyalties." Boromir sighed, "I hate this as much as you do, but I would not leave them here where Father's partisans might suborn them into involvement in some misguided scheme against Faramir."

The guardsman nodded reluctantly and set to work, his face grim. Boromir pulled his brother aside so they could speak without disturbing Beregond.

Faramir shook his head, gazing at his brother with fond exasperation. "So you are determined to take all the potential troublemakers with you, despite the fact they could easily make trouble in an army camp as they could here?"

Boromir shrugged, "The guardsmen accompanying us will be told tonight that they will leave on the morrow; it would be quick work indeed for any plan to be formulated in such a short time. Since the potential instigators will be left here to _your_ tender mercies, Faramir, I do not anticipate any real risk to me."

He laid a hand on the younger man's shoulder and met his eyes, his face grave. "Fara, we both understand what we face. The odds are long indeed against this strategy succeeding; and I know that if things go ill those of us who die quickly to an enemy's blade might be counted fortunate. You may be left here to fight against impossible odds and to make choices no one should be asked to make." His voice cracked with emotion, "It is a thankless task and it breaks my heart that I must ask this of you, dear brother, but there is no one—_no one_—I trust more to make the right decisions for the survival of our people."

Faramir's eyes were glinting with tears as he pulled his brother in a rough embrace, "The Valar have preserved us both so far against all odds, perhaps they will continue to bless us."

Boromir chuckled wryly and wiped the tears from his own eyes before ruffling Faramir's hair, "Perhaps so, baby brother."

Beregond had completed his task and rose to hand the parchment to his Steward.

"My thanks, Beregond, I know this was difficult for you." He nodded to Faramir, "Come, we should meet with Uncle to finalize arrangements for tomorrow. Beregond, could you please send a message to Morloth to let her know that I should be free in three hours' time?"

His brother stared at him in astonishment, "Morloth? You're meeting Morloth? The last I heard she was avoiding you!"

Boromir reddened, a smile spreading across his face, "I'm sorry I didn't have a chance to tell you before the meeting, but I…I spoke to Morloth."

"And?!" Faramir demanded.

"She…agreed to marry me, Fara," he beamed.

"Thank Eru for that!" Faramir chuckled, wrapping his arms around his brother and planting a loud kiss on his forehead. "There would have been no living with you otherwise!" When his brother returned the embrace, he murmured, "Congratulations, dear Boromir. Now you simply must come back to us; I will accept no other outcome."


End file.
